MAI « 


■m* 4        J  ..  --' 


LEONARD  MERftlCl 


The  actor-Manager 


BY    LEONARD    MERRICK 

THE  POSITION  OF  PEGGY 
CONRAD  IN  QUEST  OF  HIS  YOUTH 
THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

STORIES 
WHISPERS  ABOUT  WOMEN:  STORIES 
THE  ACTOR-MANAGER 
ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 
LYNCH'S  DAUGHTER 

At  all  booksellers 


THE 

ACTOR-MANAGER 


BY 

LEONARD  MERRICK 


MITCHELL   KENNERLEY 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

MCMXII 


Copyright  1912   by 
Mitchell   Kennerley 


THE  ACTOR-MANAGER 


CHAPTER  I 

There  used  to  be,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Museum,  an  eating-house,  of  which  the  feature  was 
a  three-course  dinner  for  sixpence.  On  a  board  in 
the  doorway  was  inscribed  "First-class  Room  Up- 
stairs," and  this  was  well  worth  visiting.  Its  true 
attraction,  however,  drd  not  lie  in  its  steaming  soup, 
its  colonial  meat,  nor  its  impregnable  pastry,  but  in 
the  study  of  its  patrons.  Eschewing  the  ground- 
floor,  where,  to  the  casual  observer,  the  dirt  of 
the  diners  obscured  their  interest,  one  found  one- 
self among  pale-faced  girls  in  sage-green  frocks  of 
eccentric  pattern,  among  young  men  with  bilious 
bows  and  abundant  hair.  These  were  "art-students" 
— to  use  the  comprehensive  term  by  which  the  stu- 
dents of  painting  describe  themselves — the  fact  was 
evident  at  a  glance,  before  scrutiny  discovered  the 
Roman  Gallery  written  in  charcoal  on  their  fingers. 

252738 


2  1  H£,  AGTOR-MANAGER 

A  greasy  coat,  white  at  the  left  elbow,  and  frayed 
under  the  right  cuff,  confirmed  the  impression  that 
its  wearer  was  a  hack  from  the  Reading  Room. 
Sometimes  a  reporter  and  his  note-book  might  be 
recognized;  more  frequent  was  the  sight  of  a  violin- 
case,  or  a  roll  of  songs.  Occasionally  a  denizen  of 
the  foreign  quarter  behind  Tottenham  Court  Road 
stumbled  upon  the  establishment — to  sigh  for  the 
forbidden  cigarette,  and  renew  his  allegiance  to  the 
restaurants  of  Charlotte  Street;  now  and  again  a 
stray  shop-girl  out  of  employment,  or  an  excursionist 
up  for  the  day,  gaped  at  the  costumes  of  the  com- 
pany— approving  the  cuisine  and  disdaining  the 
clientele.  A  little  woman  with  spectacles  and  close- 
cropped  hair  suggested  mathematics;  and  a  Pole, 
whose  unkempt  locks  swept  the  grime  on  his  velvet 
collar,  left  one  in  doubt  whether  to  attribute  to  him 
operas  or  infernal  machines. 

On  a  certain  winter  afternoon,  the  room,  usually 
so  full,  was  deserted  save  by  two  persons.  One  was 
a  man  of  about  thirty;  the  other  was  a  girl,  five  or 
six  years  younger.  Though  they  had  often  met 
there,  they  were  not  acquaintances,  and  it  might  be 
seen  that  to-day  each  was  at  once  interested  and  a 
shade  embarrassed  by  the  other's  presence.  When 
the  waitress  reappeared  with  pudding,  the  silence 
between  them  had  not  been  broken,  but  the  man, 
stealing  another  glance,  saw  that  the  girl  was  crying. 

They  were  seated  close  together;  the  room  con- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  3 

tained  three  long  tables,  but  two  of  them  were  bare, 
and  the  cloth  extended  but  half-way  down  the  third. 
The  preparations  for  custom  had  been  slight  to-day 
at  the  eating-house,  and  of  all  its  struggling  fre- 
quenters— of  all  its  hopeful  and  its  hopeless  band — 
only  these  two  apparently  had  had  nowhere  else  to 
go.  The  attendant,  who  had  returned  to  her  chair 
behind  the  counter,  contemplated  them  with  an  air 
of  compassionate  protest.  The  date  was  December 
the  twenty-fifth. 

He  looked  quickly  away,  out  at  the  dreary  street. 
He  understood  the  tears  that  stood  in  his  com- 
panion's eyes — if  he  had  been  a  woman,  his  mood 
would  have  required  the  same  relief.  That  was  not 
his  reflection,  however;  the  thought  of  which  he  was 
suddenly  conscious  was  that  he  wished  the  girl  and 
he  knew  each  other.  He  was  alone,  and  had  never 
experienced  the  ache  of  loneliness  more  strongly.  In 
fancy  he  had  been  reliving  his  life,  lingering  at  the 
milestones,  and  scenting  afresh  the  fragrance  of 
mornings  passed  away.  He  remembered  Christmas 
at  the  Vicarage — had  seen  himself  a  child  again  in 
his  father's  church.  The  old  man's  face  and  white 
hair  above  the  pulpit,  and  the  laurel  and  crimson 
berries  round  the  font,  flashed  close — seemed  close 
enough  for  him  to  clasp  them.  He  remembered  his 
scholarship,  his  joy,  the  moment  when  his  father's 
lips  had  trembled  at  the  news;  reviewed  his  boy- 
hood at  Harrow,  and  his  confidence  at  Oxford.     It 


4  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

was  to  be  the  Church  then  for  him,  too.  He  re- 
called the  first  touch %i  indecision;  the  time  when 
the  cry  of  Art  within  him  became  insistent;  the 
night  when  he  announced  the  change  in  his  inten- 
tions. Under  the  snow  upon  the  cemetery  his  father 
lay  now,  beyond  the  reach  of  disappointments. 
Thank  God  the  bond  between  them  had  never  weak- 
ened! The  long  battle  which  was  still  unwon  had 
been  mentally  refought  since  his  meagre  breakfast; 
and  the  sense  of  solitariness,  the  longing  for  sym- 
pathy, was  acute  as  he  stared  through  the  window 
at  the  empty  streets. 

He  spoke  a  second  later: 

"We're  spared  the  outrage  of  a  Christmas  pudding 
made  fashionable  in  a  mould  here !  If  a  Christmas 
plum-pudding's  not  as  round  as  a  cannon-ball,  it  isn't 
a  Christmas  plum-pudding." 

"No,"  she  said.  She  sought  for  a  continuation. 
"And  it  ought  to  be  very  big!"  she  added. 

"With  a  sprig  of  holly  and  blue  flames!" 

Momentarily  he  saw  the  Vicarage  again.  If 
Christmas  were  good  for  nothing  else,  it  would  serve 
to  remind  us  we  were  once  innocent  and  happy,  and 
didn't  know  it;  for  everyone  associates  Christmas 
more  vividly  with  his  own  childhood  than  with 
Christ's.  The  girl  did  not  reply  further;  she  looked 
down  at  her  plate.  The  man  looked  wistfully  at  the 
girl;  and  the  attendant,  with  a  smothered  yawn, 
looked  at  the  clock. 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  5 

"I  think  I've  seen  you  here  before,"  said  Oliphant. 
"I  wonder  they  are  open  to-day!  I  was  half  afraid 
I  shouldn't  get  any  dinner." 

"It  was  the  same  with  me — I  am  only  in  lodgings, 

and "  she  shivered,   and  drew  her  cape  more 

closely  round  her  shoulders. 

"Are  you  cold?"  he  asked. 

"The  fire  isn't  very  Christmassy,  is  it?  Do  you 
know  what  I'm  going  to  do  when  I  get  up?  I'm 
going  to  walk  round  the  Squares,  and  look  into  all 
the  dining-rooms,  where  hateful  rich  people  are  hav- 
ing port  and  walnuts,  and  toasting  themselves  before 
the  most  expensive  coal.  I  shall  loathe  them  vio- 
lently." 

"And  then?"  said  Oliphant,  smiling. 

"I  shall  go  home." 

"And  then?" 

"I  shall  howl!" 

Though  he  had  not  failed  to  notice  her  on  the 
previous  occasions,  he  was  surprised  that  he  had  not 
noticed  her  more.  He  regarded  her  with  rising  in- 
terest, even  with  gratitude.  Her  face,  though  lack- 
ing in  color,  had  a  beauty  which  was  accentuated  by 
the  style  in  which  the  dark  hair  was  worn — parted 
in  the  centre,  and  waving  loosely  over  her  brow  and 
ears.  Her  eyes  at  first  sight  had  looked  black,  but 
he  saw  now  that  they  were  grey. 

"My  programme  will  be  as  lively  as  your  own," 
he  said. 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 


"You  have  nowhere  to  go  either?" 

"Oh,  I've  a  large  selection  of  thoroughfares;  and 
/  can  'go  home'  too.  There's  no  place  like  home — 
and  it's  often  very  fortunate !" 

"What  do  you  do?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  an  actor." 

"Are  you?"  she  exclaimed;  "I  shouldn't  have 
guessed  it.     I'm  an  actress." 

"I  wondered  if  you  were;  I  was  sure  you  acted  or 
sang.     Are  you  playing  anywhere?" 

"I  was  in  the  Independent  Theatre  last  month — 
did  you  go?  I  haven't  done  anything  since  then;  it's 
such  a  bad  time  of  the  year.  I  was  very  fortunate 
to  be  in  the  'Independent' ;  I  was  playing  in  Ealing, 
and  the  Margetsons  saw  me,  and  offered  me  the  en- 
gagement. I  understudied  Mrs.  Margetson.  If  I 
could  have  played  Hilda  !" 

"Does  Ibsen  attract  you?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  play  Hilda  Wangel  in 
The  Master  Builder.  I  should  like  to  play  Hilda; 
and  I  long  to  play  Juliet,  and — oh,  I  who  am  no- 
body, how  I  should  love  to  create  Lucy  Feverel  on 
the  stage!" 

"You  read  Meredith?" 

"Because  I'm  an  obscure  actress  can't  I  read? 
Oh,  I  know !  I'm  not  surprised  you  stared.  But  I 
might  have  stared  at  you  for  knowing  it  was  Mere- 
dith! Lucy!  She's  the  nineteenth-century  Juliet, 
isn't  she?    Are  you  among  the  enemies  of  the  'In- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  7 

dependent,'  or  among  the  people  who  care  nothing 
about  it?" 

"Neither,"  he  said.  "The  greatest  work  will 
never  appeal  to  the  greatest  number.  How  should 
it?" 

"That's  discouraging  to  an  artist!"  She  rested 
her  elbows  on  the  cloth — her  fingers  interlaced, 
and  supporting  her  chin — her  eyes  lifted  to  him  at- 
tentively. 

"I  mean  the  greatest  creative  work.  Does  an 
actor  or  an  actress  create?  You  used  the  word, 
but  I'm  afraid  we  don't!  The  best  of  us  in- 
terpret— like  Paderewski,  Sarasate;  Wagner  cre- 
ates. Shakespeare  created  Hamlet;  the  actor  who 
plays  the  part  tries  to  interpret  his  intention.  Need 
he  be  any  the  less  an  artist  because  the  nature  of  his 
art  demands  collaboration?" 

"His  collaborators  aren't  all  Shakespeares,"  she 
said;  "nor  Ibsens." 

"Oh,  the  actor  who  interprets  may  be  infinitely 
more  subtle  than  the  part  to  be  interpreted.  What 
banalities  are  seriously  considered  because  he  gives 
them  life  out  of  his  own  mind  and  heart!" 

"But  good  work  is  knocking  at  the  stage  doors!" 
she  cried;  "why  isn't  it  admitted?  Why  does  the 
actor  put  the  banalities  on?  When  he  is  his  own 
Manager,  why  not  produce  things  that  are  worthy 
of  him?" 

"Because  the  Best  only  appeals  to  the  minority  as 


8  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

I  say.  If  you  want  a  proof  of  it,  remember  that 
England  claims  the  greatest  dramatic  poet  the  world 
has  known,  and  then  look  down  the  list  of  the  travel- 
ling Companies — see  how  many  are  playing  his  work 
in  the  United  Kingdom !  You  know ! — it's  appall- 
ing. Managers  wouldn't  pay  fees  for  trash,  instead 
of  taking  poetry  for  nothing,  if  the  poetry  'drew'  as 
well;  you  can  be  quite  sure  of  that;  for  their  ambi- 
tion is  to  make  money !" 

"Is  it  yours?"  she  asked  impatiently.  "If  you 
were  an  actor-manager,  what  would  you  produce?" 

The  attendant  folded  her  novelette,  rose,  and 
came  round  to  the  table. 

"It's  shuttin'  up  time,  please,"  she  said;  "we're 
only  open  to  four  o'clock  to-day."  She  tore  out  two 
vouchers,  and  picked  up  the  coins. 

"I  wish  I  had  spoken  to  you  over  the  soup,"  said 
Oliphant,  watching  the  girl  put  on  her  gloves. 

She  smiled.  "I  was  praying  you  wouldn't  speak 
at  all — I  felt  so  miserable.  But  I  am  glad  you  did. 
Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  he  repeated,  as  she  preceded  him 
down  the  stairs.  "It  would  be  a  farce  to  wish  you 
'A  Merry  Christmas,'  "  he  added,  as  they  reached 
the  foot,  "but  I  hope  it  won't  be  too  wretched! 
Are  you  going  to  take  that  walk,  and  'loathe  them 
violently'?" 

"I  think  so — it  will  be  something  to  do." 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  9 

She  seemed  undecided  whether  to  extend  her 
hand;  then  made  as  if  to  offer  it. 

"You  wouldn't  let  me  come  with  you?"  he  said 
hesitatingly;  "I " 

"I  think  not,"  she  said;  "thanks." 

They  stood  on  the  desolate  pavement,  looking 
away  from  each  other.  The  daylight  was  slowly 
fading,  and  on  the  pallor  a  yellow  gas-lamp  leapt 
into  the  perspective. 

"You  don't  mind  my  having  asked  you?  I — I 
meant  no  harm." 

"No,  I  understand,"  she  said;  "but " 

"It  would  lessen  the  awfulness  for  half  an  hour," 
pleaded  Oliphant.  "I've  no  one  to  talk  to;  I've 
nothing  to  read;  and,  oh,  I  have  the  blues!  Can't 
you  imagine  we've  been  introduced?  Do  let  me  .  .  . 
Will  you?" 

She  wavered  an  instant.  "For  half  an  hour 
then,"  she  responded;  "come!" 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "very  much.  Which  way 
do  we  go?" 

"Oh,  the  loneliness  of  London!"  exclaimed  the 
girl  as  they  crossed  the  road;  "the  loneliness  of  it!" 
She  glanced  at  him  and  sighed.  "This  is  very  im- 
probable," she  remarked. 

"Probabilities  aren't  pleasing,"  said  Oliphant. 
"The  greatest  probability  is  that  'the  part  is  already 
cast'!" 


IO  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"It's  a  hard  profession,"  she  assented,  "if  one 
has  no  influence.     Have  you  been  in  town?" 

"I've  just  got  my  first  engagement  here.  We 
open  in  about  a  fortnight.  The  Queen's.  I  speak 
twelve  lines.    On  tour  I've  been  playing  'juveniles.'  " 

"How  dreadful!     What  you  must  feel!" 

"I  do.  But  I  couldn't  endure  the  provinces  for 
ever.  I  want  to  get  on — make  my  mark.  I  have 
worked  so  hard,  and  hoped  so  long;  it's  time  I  did 
something.  If  I'm  playing  in  London,  a  chance  may 
be  easier  to  find — in  the  Companies  on  tour  one  is 
buried.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

"I've  played  several  small  parts  in  London,"  she 
said;  "but  they  have  led  to  no  better  chance  for  me. 
Oh,  I'm  discouraged!  I  haven't  struggled  so  long 
as  you,  I  daresay;  but  a  girl's  weaker,  and  I'm 
discouraged!" 

"Are  you  quite  alone?" 

She  nodded.     "I  lost  my  mother  last  year;  she 

was  all  I  had.     When  she  died,  it "  her  voice 

quivered,  and  they  strolled  on  in  silence.  "I  think 
it  made  it  crueller,"  she  continued  softly,  "to  know 
she  thought  I'd  get  on  better  without  her,  because — 
because  it  was  my  joy  to  help  her  as  much  as  I  could 
while  she  lived." 

"I  envy  you!"  said  Oliphant;  "all  /  did  was  to 
cause  my  father  pain." 

"Didn't  he  want  you  to  be  an  actor;  is  that  what 
you  mean?    Did  you  quarrel?" 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  II 

"He  didn't  quarrel  with  me,  but  he  was  disap- 
pointed. And  he  was  the  best  father  a  man  ever 
had." 

"I  like  you  for  saying  that,"  she  answered. 
"What  did  he  want  you  to  be?" 

"What  he  was  himself — a  clergyman." 

"Really?"  she  said  with  surprise;  "and  you  felt 
you  couldn't?" 

"I  wanted  to,  once.  It  was  as  I  grew  older  that 
my  views  changed.  I  don't  mean  religious  views, 
or  anything  like  that — I  simply  felt  that  my  tem- 
perament forbade  it,  and  that  the  Stage  was  the  only 
career  possible  for  me.  You  asked  me  in  there  what 
I'd  do  if  I  were  an  actor-manager.  I  went  into  the 
profession  because  I  loved  it;  because  it  seemed  to 
me  the  Stage  might  teach  as  high  a  lesson  as  the 
Pulpit — that  it  might  be  the  loudest,  greatest  voice 
in  all  the  world.  More  powerful  than  the  Church, 
because  the  Church  is  precept  and  the  Stage  is  action; 
more  intimate  than  the  sister-arts,  because  it  speaks 
in  a  simpler  tongue.  And  it  should  be  Art;  but  art 
— art  is  Revelation !  Shall  I  tell  you  what  my  dream 
is?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  raising  an  earnest  gaze;  "tell 
me  your  dream !" 

Instinctively  they  had  paused.  They  were  by  the 
pillar-box  at  the  gates  of  the  British  Museum.  In 
the  immense  quietude  theirs  were  the  only  human 


12  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

figures;  the  London  that  gorged,  and  the  London 
that  wept,  were  both  out  of  view. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "a  small  theatre,  and  at  this 
theatre  the  one  literary  medium  for  the  Drama  isn't 
held  to  be  the  baldest  prose;  poetry  is  neither 
divorced  from  this  stage,  nor  limited  to  Shakespeare 
— it  is  thought  possible  to  test  the  work  of  a  poet 
who  has  not  had  centuries  of  advertising!  But  the 
realist  is  as  welcome  as  the  poet;  oh,  he  is  welcome! 
Only  the  plays  are  Literature,  and  they  are  real 
plays.  The  men  and  women  live !  They  are  not 
puppets  pulled  by  inexorable  strings  through  four 
Acts  to  a  conventional  end.  Reward  for  virtue  and 
punishment  for  vice  are  shown  to  exist  in  the  soul, 
and  not  in  material  success  and  failure.  To  depict 
the  world  as  a  school,  where  virtue  wins  the  prize 
and  vice  gets  a  flogging,  is  immoral.  The  parts 
around  me  aren't  written  down  to  bring  my  part 
into  greater  prominence.  The  dramatist  who  comes 
to  me  is  free;  free  to  be  true  to  his  convictions  and 
his  art;  free  to  choose  his  characters  where  he  will, 
and  to  trace  their  legitimate  development;  free  to 
make  the  'lost'  woman  noble,  and  the  'godly'  woman 
vile — for  such  things  are! — and  the  love  within  him 
for  all  humanity  would  point  the  moral  when  it 
needed  pointing.  The  real  playwright  is  your  real 
optimist— your  real  Christ-follower — for  he  shows 
that  sin  doesn't  mean  damnation,  and  that  there  is 
redemption  for  the  pure  in  heart.     The  one  com- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 3 

mand  laid  upon  him  is  to  see  things  nobly — that  his 
deeper  vision  shall  help  the  crowd!  Where  shall 
I  find  such  writers?  There  are  dramatists  not 
known,  and  well-known  writers  who  could  write 
much  better!  By  degrees  I  gather  round  me  a  band 
of — of  the  dmes  bien  nees,  the — how  shall  I  say  it? 
—the " 

"The  elect!"  she  put  in  rapidly;  "yes,  I  under- 
stand French.  It  would  be  a  good  name  for  the 
house — The  Elect!" 

"I  'produce'  men  who  don't  work  for  the  Stage 
now,  or  whose  manuscripts  are  considered  hopeless 
because  they  don't  appeal  to  the  largest  public. 
With  a  small  theatre  I  could  afford  to  depend  upon( 
the  educated  minority.  There  is  a  Press  waiting  for 
such  an  endeavor,  and,  though  at  first  the  'notices' 
are  bigger  than  the  'returns,'  they  gradually  win 
for  me  the  recognition  of  the  entire  public  that 
I  am  addressing.  Believe  me  that  public  is  large 
enough  to  keep  my  house  open  all  the  year  round. 

Miss  ,   er — my  companion  in  misfortune,  my 

theatre  becomes  a  force  in  intellectual  London.  I 
am  famous,  happy !  I  have  fulfilled  my  ambition, 
I  am  the  Manager  of  the — the  Theatre  Royal  Day- 
dream! ...  I  have  been  keeping  you  standing 
still  in  the  cold;  forgive  me!" 

She  caught  her  breath.  "You  are  an  artist,"  she 
said.     "I  believe  you'll  succeed.     Ah,  this  is  one  of 


14  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

the  moments  when  I  think  that  to  be  an  artist  and 
fail,  is  something!" 

"We  are  both  artists,"  he  said;  "The  Two  Bo- 
hemians!" 

"I  haven't  told  you  my  name.     It  is  Alma  King." 

"I'm  so  glad  we  met,  Miss  King!  Mine  is  Royce 
Oliphant.  You  see  the  benefit  of  giving  a  thing  a 
trial — we  couldn't  know  each  other  better  if  the 
formal  introduction  had  taken  place !  Now  could 
we?" 

"Look!"  she  murmured,  halting  again  in  two  or 
three  minutes. 

He  glanced  at  the  window  that  she  indicated. 
"Ah,  the  opportunity  for  the  violent  loathing!" 

"No,"  she  said;  "only  for  the  imagination  after 
all.  How  torpid  they  look  after  their  dinner !  But 
it's  cozy  in  the  firelight,  isn't  it?  I  wonder  what 
they  do — one  can't  see  their  features?  Trade,  of 
course!  Trade  in  saddlebag  armchairs  digests  the 
turkey,  and  Art  in  the  streets  builds  castles  in  the 
air.     Observe  the  adipose  children?" 

"Their  figures  are  not  distinguishable,"  said 
Oliphant. 

"I  feel  they're  adipose — I  told  you  this  was 
an  exercise  of  the  imagination.  Oh,  the  servant 
has  come  to  pull  the  blinds  down!  The  entertain- 
ment is  over.  I  don't  think  we'll  look  in  anywhere 
else — other  people's  comfort  is  very  saddening!" 

They  waited  there,  by  the  area  railings,  in  Bed- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I  5 

ford  Square,  nevertheless,  till  the  last  of  the  blinds 
was  lowered.  Illuminated,  the  interior  had  a  fasci- 
nation— the  group  on  the  hearth,  and  the  gleam 
of  decanters  under  the  crimson  shade  above  the 
damask;  the  glinting  picture-frames,  and  the  splen- 
dor of  a  Christmas-tree.  Meanwhile  on  the  Two 
Bohemians  a  little  snow  commenced  to  fall. 

"You  must  go  home,"  said  Oliphant  regretfully. 
"Do  you  live  far  away?" 

"No,  close,"  she  said;  "in  Alfred  Place.  And 
you?" 

"In  Burton  Crescent." 

"Oh,  how  wet  you'll  get !  You'd  better  leave  me 
here;  it's  coming  down  more  heavily." 

"Nonsense !  I'll  see  you  to  your  door.  We  go 
through  Store  Street,  don't  we?" 

They  hastened  their  steps,  but  both  were  sorry 
that  the  end  had  come;  to  each  the  prospect  of  the 
evening  looked  unutterably  dismal. 

"I  suppose  I  may  see  you  at  dinner  again?"  asked 
Oliphant,  as  they  turned  by  the  little  post-office  at 
the  corner.     "Have  you  any  regular  time?" 

"About  two,  as  a  rule." 

"Shall  you  be  there  to-morrow?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  stopping;  "perhaps. 
This  is  the  house." 

"Good-bye,  then,"  said  Oliphant,  "and  thank  you 
again.     I  won't  keep  you  standing  in  a  snowstorm 


1 6  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

to  listen  to  pretty  speeches,  but  I'm  grateful  to  you. 
I  should  like  to  think  we're  going  to  be  friends." 

She  drew  out  a  latch-key,  and  faced  him  a  mo- 
ment with  steadfast  eyes.  Then  quite  simply  she 
said: 

"I  want  you  to  come  in,  Mr.  Oliphant,  please; 
and  we'll  have  some  tea." 

She  opened  the  door;  and,  delighted,  he  followed 
her  into  the  dark  passage,  and  into  an  apartment 
to  which  she  led  the  way.  The  fire  was  low,  and 
it  was  not  until  she  had  lighted  the  lamp  that  Oli- 
phant perceived  that  she  was  compelled  to  make 
shift  with  one  room.  The  asperities  of  bed  and 
wash-hand  stand,  however,  were  mollified  by  a 
shabby  screen.  He  chose  a  seat  where  they  would 
be  behind  him,  and  noted  the  resemblance  between 
the  broken  vases  on  the  mantelpiece  and  his  own. 
A  framed  photograph  stood  among  them,  and  the 
girl  took  it  up  and  showed  it  to  him. 

"This  was  a  likeness  of  my  mother,  Mr.  Oli- 
phant," she  said. 

The  dignity  of  the  action  thrilled  him  with  pleas- 
ure and  respect;  he  felt  that  she  could  not  have  done 
anything  more  beautiful. 

She  removed  her  cape  and  gloves,  and,  kneeling 
on  the  hearth,  coaxed  the  fire  into  a  blaze. 

"Are  you  very  wet?"  she  said.  "As  soon  as  the 
kettle  boils,  things  will  be  more  cheerful.  I  wait 
on  myself  very  much  here — I  find  it  better." 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 7 

"Have  you  been  here  long?"  asked  Oliphant. 

"No;  only  since  the  'Independent'  performances 
— nearly  two  months.  It  isn't  very  comfortable, 
but  ...  I  shall  move  when  I  get  another  en- 
gagement. In  the  meanwhile  I  have  to  put  up  with 
it."  She  pulled  the  pin  from  her  hat,  and  passed 
her  slim  hands  over  her  hair.  "You  are  looking  at 
my  'library' !     It's  modest,  is  it  not?" 

"I  can  only  distinguish  two-thirds  of  the  library," 
he  said;  "The  Works  of  Shakespeare,  and  Archer's 
Masks  or  Faces — you  know  your  Masks  or  Faces, 
do  you!     What  is  the  little  one?" 

"The  little  one  is  ninepennyworth  of  Browning. 
I'm  studying  Any  Wife  to  Any  Husband — because 
I  shall  never  in  my  life  be  given  an  opportunity  to 
recite  it!" 

"Recite  it  now,"  said  Oliphant. 

"No,  thank  you !  But  what  a  recitation  it  would 
make !  I  don't  know  why  no  woman  ever  does  it. 
Ah,  it's  lovely — can  one  express  how  divine  it  is ! 
Do  you  read  much?  But  of  course  you  do!  I 
wonder  if  you've  ever  tried  to  write?" 

"What  makes  you  ask  that?"  he  said. 

"Have  you?" 

"Once." 

"A  play?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  yes;  a  play,  of  course." 

"It  hasn't  been  produced,  I  suppose? — Oh,  how 
rude  that  sounds!" 


I  8  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"The  assumption's  entirely  correct.  Tt  has  been 
accepted  three  times,  but  has  not  been  produced. 
It's  in  an  agent's  hands  now;  and  I  suppose  it  will 
stay  there — unless  he  loses  it.     It's  a  drama." 

"Good?"  she  inquired,  settling  the  kettle  afresh. 

"/  thought  it  was  very  good.  So  did  everybody 
else  who  read  it — only  nobody  'puts  it  on.'  Your 
kettle  won't  sing!  Isn't  that  what  you  call  it — 
'singing'?  Shall  I  draw  up  the  fire  for  you  with 
that  newspaper?" 

"The  water  was  cold,"  she  said;  "it'll  be  all  right 
in  a  minute.  I'll  ring  for  a  second  cup  and  saucer. 
Tell  me  about  your  drama." 

"The  idea — the  foundation-stone  at  least — is  a 
shade  melodramatic,  perhaps;  but  the  theme  doesn't 
make  a  play  melodrama  if  there's  no  bombast  in 
the  treatment?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said;  "but  even  if  it  does, 
mightn't  a  melodrama  without  bombast  be  as  much 
art  as  anything  else?  'The  great  future  for  the 
Stage  lies  in  perfect  freedom :  freedom  to  try  every 
kind  of  experiment — to  be  realistic  or  idealistic,  pro- 
saic or  fantastic,  "well  made"  or  plotless;  freedom 
to  go  anywhere,  like  the  British  Army,  and  do  any- 
thing.' Have  I  a  'quick  study'? — I've  only  read  the 
book  once.    What  is  the  foundation-stone?" 

"It  was  suggested  by  the  Tichborne  Case.  Life, 
of  course !  But  so  many  phases  of  life  become  melo- 
drama when  they're  transferred  to  the  stage." 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 9 

The  bell  drew  from  the  basement  a  seven-year- 
old  child  with  wooden  eyes,  and  fat  unhealthy  cheeks. 
Jam  and  mince-pie  clung  to  his  chin,  and  he  snored. 

"Will  you  ask  your  mother  to  let  me  have  another 
cup  and  saucer,  Norman?"  said  the  lodger  depreca- 
tingly.  "Say  I've  a  friend  here.  .  .  .  We  shall 
have  it  directly,"  she  continued,  as  the  child  shuffled 
out,  "and  then  you  must  tell  me  the  plot." 

They  sat  opposite  each  other  by  the  narrow  stove. 
Momentarily  the  dramatist  was  as  strong  as  the 
actor  in  Oliphant,  and  the  play  for  which  he  had 
hoped  so  much  three  years  ago  moved  him  to  con- 
fidence again.  The  girl,  her  hands  clasped  loosely 
round  her  knee,  leant  forward,  stirred  by  visions 
in  which  a  mighty  theatre  hung  upon  her  voice,  and 
the  conquest  of  London  was  achieved.  Both  turned 
at  a  peremptory  knock,  and  started  as  the  door  was 
thrown  open. 

The  demeanor  of  the  woman  who  stood  on  the 
threshold  was  as  excited  as  her  method  of  announ- 
cing herself.  Her  face  was  white,  and  when  she 
began  to  speak  she  trembled. 

"This  is  pretty  goings-on,"  she  said;  "this  won't 
do  'ere!  I  don't  'ave  it,  and  that's  all  about  it." 
She  turned  to  Oliphant.  "I'll  trouble  you  to  leave 
the  'ouse.    Now  then!" 

"Mrs.  Imms!"  stammered  the  girl,  as  white  as 
she. 

"My  good  woman,"  exclaimed  Oliphant,  horribly 


20  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

distressed,  "what  do  you  mean?     I  assure  you- 

There  isn't  the  slightest  cause  for  your  annoyance. 
I've  the  honor  to  be  a  friend  of  Miss  King's,  and  she 
was  kind  enough  to  ask  me  in  for  half  an  hour.  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  there  was  anything  extraor- 
dinary about  it  on  Christmas  Day." 

The  householder  did  not  seem  to  understand,  or 
to  hear  him. 

"You'd  best  be  off,"  she  repeated;  "and  so  I  tell 
yer!  This  is  a  respectable  'ouse — not  meant  for  the 
likes  of  'er!  Yes,  you  I'm  talkin'  about — yer  thing; 
you  as  don't  pay  your  rent!  I  might  'ave  told  what 
it'd  be  when  I  found  you  was  an  actress — I'd  never 
'ave  taken  you  if  I'd  known!" 

"You  —  ignorant  —  wretch!"  gasped  the  girl, 
steadying  herself  by  the  mantelpiece.  "Go,"  she 
added  to  Oliphant;  "please,  go!" 

"The  woman's  been  drinking,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice;  "do  you  want  me  to  leave  you  to  her?" 

"Yes;  please! — please,"  she  murmured  agitatedly. 

"Aha!"  cried  Mrs.  Imms;  "and  you  go  with  'im, 
that's  more !  I  won't  keep  you  no  longer.  Out  you 
go !  I'll  'ave  your  box  for  what  it's  worth,  and  you 
don't  sleep  in  my  'ouse,  not  another  night!" 

Oliphant  looked  sharply  round;  but  the  mute  ap- 
peal forbade  his  lingering.  The  uproar  continued 
as  he  traversed  the  passage — still  in  darkness — and 
fumbled  with  the  handles  at  the  end. 

The  street  opened  upon  him  quiet  and  bleak.    The 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  21 

snow  had  ceased,  but  the  wind  blew  bitterly.  He 
hated  himself  for  having  come  in,  though  he  could 
not  perceive  where  he  had  been  at  fault.  The 
woman's  threat  to  turn  the  girl  out  of  doors  was 
in  his  ears,  and  weighed  on  his  consciousness;  im- 
possible that  he  could  leave  unless  satisfied  that  it 
was  not  to  be  fulfilled.  He  made  a  cigarette,  lit 
it,  and  sauntered  to  and  fro,  debating  how  long  a 
vigil  was  demanded  to  dispel  all  doubt. 

His  capital  was  reduced  to  eighteen  shillings  and 
a  few  pence;  his  prospects  were  represented  by  the 
engagement  at  the  Queen's  Theatre,  of  which  he  had 
spoken — an  engagement  which  would  provide  him 
with  the  sum  of  two  pounds  a  week,  less  than  half 
the  salary  that  he  had  been  receiving  in  the  provinces. 
If  it  had  been  otherwise He  sighed.  He  re- 
flected that  it  would  have  been  a  luxury  to  pay  the 
amount  of  Mrs.  Imms'  claim,  and  to  send  Miss  King 
to  an  hotel  this  evening:  a  room  with  a  cozy  arm- 
chair, and  a  glowing  hearth,  where  she  would  dine 
in  reality  before  she  slept,  and  have  a  respite  from 
her  cares.  Yes,  that  would  have  been  delightful! 
Did  rich  men  have  these  pleasures?  Or  did  the  op- 
portunities only  fall  to  men  like  himself,  who 
couldn't   seize   them? 

His  cigarette  was  finished;  he  paused  by  a  lamp- 
post, and  tried,  with  numbed  fingers,  to  roll  another. 
Now  she  would  regret  that  she  had  met  him— the 
oasis  in  the  desert  of  their  London  had  proved  a 


22  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

misfortune  to  her!  Who  could  have  foreseen  that 
it  would  have  so  serious  a  development?  All  the 
same,  she  would  always  recall  it  with  abhorrence — 
that  was  only  human  nature.  .  .  .  But  perhaps 
in  the  morning  the  landlady  would  apologize.  He 
threw  a  glance  at  the  house  again,  and  ran  forward 
as  a  figure  appeared  on  the  doorstep. 

"You?"  faltered  the  girl,  shrinking. 

"I  couldn't  go  till  I  knew,"  he  said.  "Are  you 
going  away?" 

"Yes;  don't — don't  trouble,  thanks.  It  was  good 
of  you  to  wait;  but  there's  nothing  you  can  do." 
Her  tone  was  hard;  but  it  could  not  conceal  that 
there  were  tears  in  her  throat.  She  looked  away 
from  him. 

"Haven't  you  your  luggage  ?" 

"She  wouldn't  let  me  take  it.     You  see,  I 

You  understand,  I  owe  her  money — she  has  kept  my 
things.     I  have  these  !" 

"She  hasn't  the  right,"  cried  Oliphant,  wincing  at 
the  handbag;  "I'll  make  her  give  them  up." 

"No,  no!  don't  go  back — I'd  rather  you  didn't; 
I  shall  manage  somehow.  .  .  .  Don't  let  me 
keep  you  any  longer,"  she  repeated;  "there's  noth- 
ing you  can  do." 

"I've  done  enough!"  said  the  man  poignantly. 
"I  know!" 

"You  mustn't  think  that.  You've  nothing  to  re- 
proach yourself  for — if  anyone  is  to  blame,  it  is  I." 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  23 

The  restraint  that  she  was  putting  on  herself  gave 
way:  "You're  the  only  living  soul  I've  had  to  speak 
to  for  two  months!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  hoarse 
sob.  "Don't  think  badly  of  me  if  I  made  a  mistake." 
He  wished  he  were  a  woman  that,  for  answer,  he 
might  take  her  in  his  arms;  he  could  but  express  his 
sympathy  and  comprehension  by  halting  words.  His 
poverty  had  never  seemed  so  great  a  shackle  as 
while  they  stood  there,  helpless  on  the  pavement — 
the  only  sound,  a  bell  that  rang  for  evening  service 
at  some  neighboring  church. 


CHAPTER  II 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  inquired  Oliphant 
after  a  brief  pause.  "You  can't  go  to  one  of  these 
houses  on  Christmas  night,  without  any  luggage,  and 
expect  to  get  a  room." 

"No,  I've  thought  of  that — I  don't  know  yet 
where  I  shall  go.  There's  a  place  where  I  stayed 
when  my  mother  was  living — the  woman  would  re- 
member me.  If  it  didn't  mean  a  'bus  fare  every 
day,  I'd  try  there." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"It's  in  Shepherd's  Bush.  Are  the  trains  running 
this  evening,  do  you  know?" 

"I  daresay — you'll  let  me  take  you,  if  you  go? 
I  can't  lose  sight  of  you  till  I  know  you're  settled. 
But  how  can  you  look  for  an  engagement,  if  you're 
hard  up,  in  Shepherd's  Bush — you  can't  walk  to  the 
Strand?  Besides,  the  house  may  be  full;  or  perhaps 
the  woman  is  dead.  If  she's  alive,  I  suppose  she'll 
want  to  be  paid,  like  everybody  else,  won't  she?"  he 
added. 

"I  must  get  enough  for  the  first  week  somehow," 
she  declared,  sauntering  on;  "and  then  she  must 
trust  me,  or  I  must  give  the  room  up." 

24 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  25 

"Look  here,"  said  Oliphant  desperately,  "we 
haven't  known  each  other  two  hours,  of  course;  and 
I  can  see  you're  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  But  I'm  go- 
ing to  be  as  frank  as  if  you  were  my  sister:  I've 
eighteen  shillings — and  fourpence-halfpenny,  I  think 
it  is — in  the  world.  I  wouldn't  tell  many  people 
that,  so  I've  a  right  to  ask  for  your  friendship  in  re- 
turn. Let  me  lend  you  half  a  sovereign  till  you  get 
an  engagement." 

"Oh  no,"  she  said  under  her  breath.  "No,  thank 
you!" 

"You  won't?  How  can  you  be  so  unkind — so — 
so  absurd?  What's  to  prevent  it?  Isn't  it  any 
good?    Or  don't  you  respect  me  sufficiently?" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "that's " 

"Don't  you  like  me  enough?  You  know  we've 
been  more  confidential  than  many  acquaintances  of 
years'  standing:  you're  refusing  because  it's  strange 
that  we  should  have  grown  so  confidential  in  two 
hours.  That's  unworthy  of  a  woman  with  a  mind 
like  yours !  .  .  .  I  wish  you  would  do  what  I 
ask,  and  let  me  get  your  luggage  for  you  to-morrow. 
Do  you  propose  to  let  that  hag  keep  it  till  you  can 
pay  her?" 

"I  must  think  what  to  do  about  my  trunk,"  she 
said. 

"And  the — it's  a  big  word  for  a  silly  sum — the 
loan'?" 

"Thank  you,  'no' !     Really  and  truly  'no' !     I  ap- 


26  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

predate  what  you've  said  very  much;  but  be  tactful 
— and  don't  say  any  more." 

"Very  well,"  he  returned.  "Now  where  are  you 
going?" 

"I'm  afraid  Shepherd's  Bush  is  too  far,"  she 
sighed;  "and,  as  you  say,  the  woman  mayn't  be  there 
now." 

"Where  did  you  stay  before  you  went  to  Alfred 
Place?" 

"I  was  on  tour.  .  .  .  Last  year  I  had  apart- 
ments in  Keppel  Street;  but  they  would  be  too  dear." 
Her  pace  slackened  to  a  standstill,  and  she  turned 
impatiently:  "Please  don't  trouble  any  more! 
There's  not  the  least  necessity  for  you  to  go  through 
all  this  as  well!" 

"For  the  first  time  I'm  compelled  to  differ  from 
you,"  said  the  young  man;  "I  think  there's  every 
necessity." 

"Well,  I'd  rather  you  went,"  she  insisted;  "you'll 
oblige  me  by  saying  'Good-night.'  " 

"I'm  very  sorry,  indeed;  but  as  things  stand,  I 
don't  see  my  way  to  leaving  you." 

His  decisive  tone  stung  her  helplessness  to  anger. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  won't  go  when  I  wish 
it?"  she  exclaimed  haughtily.  "I  forbid  you  to  come 
with  me;  I  prefer  to  be  by  myself!"  She  stood 
looking  in  his  face,  her  air  as  imperious  as  her 
words.     Oliphant  had  not  realized  till  now  that  she 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  27 

was  so  tall.  "I  forbid  you  I"  she  repeated.  "I  want 
to  be  alone." 

"There's  one  way  you  can  get  rid  of  me,"  he 
said.  "Here's  a  policeman  coming;  you  can  charge 
me  with  annoying  you !  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  leave 
you  to  wander  about  London  alone,  unless  you  do !" 

The  policeman  approached  ponderously,  his  gaze 
attentive.  The  girl  resumed  her  course,  and  Oli- 
phant  turned  beside  her.  When  she  spoke  again, 
her  voice  had  no  resentment,  and  it  quivered : 

"I  want  to  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  ungrateful. 
I'm  ashamed  of  myself." 

"Oh,  please,  Miss  King!"  he  stammered.  "I  un- 
derstand so  well!" 

"It  was  only  because  I'm  so  miserable !" 

"I  know.  .  .  .  Will  you  let  me  suggest  a  way 
out  of  the  difficulty?" 

"Oh,  please  do!"  she  cried. 

"Take  a  room  in  the  house  where  I'm  staying — 
for  a  day  or  two  at  all  events.  The  landlady's  a 
good  sort;  and  it's  very  cheap,  or  /  shouldn't  be 
there !  It  will  avoid  all  bother  about  your  having 
no  luggage,  and  about  a  deposit,  and  the  rest  of  it; 
and  you  can  be  'at  home'  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour!" 
She  was  silent  a  long  while.  "I  told  you  just  now 
I  was  going  to  be  as  frank  as  if  you  were  my  sister," 
he  continued.  "If  you  were,  and  another  man  gave 
you  such  honest  advice,  I  should  want  to  find  him 
afterwards,  and  thank  him !" 


2&  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Which  is  our  way  to  Burton  Crescent?"  she  said 
cheerfully;  "I  forget."  Oliphant  glanced  at  her 
with  admiration. 

By  the  clock  at  St.  Pancras  it  was  five  minutes  to 
six  as  they  drew  near  the  house ;  they  were  now  walk- 
ing briskly.  Oliphant  unlocked  the  door,  and  letting 
Alma  in,  went  to  the  top  of  the  kitchen-stairs. 

"Mrs.  Tubbs!"  he  called.  "Mrs.  Tubbs,  can  I 
speak  to  you  for  a  moment?" 

A  buxom  little  woman  with  rosy  cheeks  and  un- 
tidy grey  hair  bustled  up  to  him. 

"You've  got  back  then?"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
thought  p'raps  you  was  spending  the  evening  with 
your  friends  after  all!" 

"No,"  he  said;  "I've  brought  one  to  you  instead. 
There's  a  lady  in  the  hall — Miss  King — who  wants 
a  room." 

"That  there  isn't!"  said  Mrs.  Tubbs;  "you're 
joking!" 

"I'm  not;  she  meant  to  sleep  in  Alfred  Place; 

in  fact,  her  luggage  is  there,  but Well,  I  know 

the  house  isn't  very  nice,  Mrs.  Tubbs,  between  our- 
selves, and  I  persuaded  her  to  come  here.  Mind! 
it's  got  to  be  cheap  and  'inclusive' — no  more  than 
you  charge  me !" 

"I'm  sure,  Miss,  I  'ope  we  shall  make  you  com- 
fortable," murmured  the  landlady,  panting  along  the 
passage.  "We're  in  a  bit  of  a  muddle,  you  know, 
along  of  Christmas  Day  and  the  girl  out,  but  I  can 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  29 

soon  get  the  room  to  rights  for  you.  Would  you 
like  to  see  it,  Miss?" 

"Please,"  said  Alma. 

"Bless  me,  I'm  forgetting  the  candle!  I  couldn't 
very  well  show  it  you  in  the  dark,  could  I?  Here, 
Amelia,  Johnny,  one  of  you!  bring  me  a  candle, 
quick!  In  the  perfession,  Miss,  the  same  as  Mr. 
Elephant,  may  I  ask?  Have  you  come  up  to  Lon- 
don for  long?" 

"Yes,  I'm  an  actress,"  said  the  girl;  "I  don't  quite 
know  how  long  I  shall  be  staying.  I'm  sorry  to  put 
you  to  any  trouble  to-day." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  about  'trouble,'  Miss;  where  there 
ain't  no  trouble  there  ain't  no  'let' !  I'm  sure  it  was 
forchunit  as  Mr.  Elephant  thought  to  bring  you. 
It'll  be  ark'ard  your  not  'aving  your  things  with  you, 
worit  it?  But  there!  you'll  make  shift  for  the 
night,  I  dessay." 

Oliphant  remained  in  the  passage  till  the  arrange- 
ment was  concluded,  and  Alma  and  the  householder 
reappeared. 

"You've  settled?"  he  inquired.     "Is  it  all  right?" 

"It's  quite  all  right,"  answered  Miss  King 
brightly:   "I'm  glad  I  came!" 

"And  if  there's  anything  you'd  fancy,  Miss,"  said 
Mrs.  Tubbs,  beaming,  "you've  only  to  say  so.  A 
cup  o'  tea  and  a  bit  o'  goose  now?" 

"I  think  we  should  like  tea  at  last!"  said  Oli- 
phant; "if  you  can  manage  it." 


30  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"If  I  can  manage  it!"  she  echoed.  "Do  hear! 
There  never  was  such  a  gentleman,  Miss,  for  fearin' 
to  put  a  body  out.  Your  fire's  in,  Mr.  Elephant, 
though  I  was  just  beginning  to  think  I  wouldn't  make 
it  up  again,  as  more  than  likely  your  friends  was 
keeping  you." 

"I  wish  they  would,  Mrs.  Tubbs,"  he  said. 
"Well,  I  expect  Miss  King  will  be  glad  to  sit  down !" 

"What  'friends'?"  asked  Alma,  as  they  mounted 
to  the  first  floor.  "I  thought  you  said  you'd  nowhere 
to  go?" 

"I  hadn't;  but  I  didn't  like  to  own  it  to  her.  She 
thought  I'd  gone  to  dine  with  some  relations.  What 
have  you  seen?" 

"I've  seen  my  room.     It  will  do  very  well." 

"Well,  I'll  show  you  some  more,"  he  said. 
"Enter!" 

He  displayed  a  drawing-room.  It  was  not  lux- 
urious, but  it  boasted  a  high  mirror  over  the  mantel- 
shelf, and  a  sideboard  supporting  another.  The  fur- 
niture was  upholstered  in  bright  blue  rep,  and  the  fire 
leapt  cheerfully. 

"Is  this  yours?"  she  exclaimed,  astonished. 

"Oh  no !  'mine'  is  a  bedroom  the  size  of  a  cup- 
board. But  I  pay  eight  shillings  a  week,  and  it  af- 
fords me  the  'use'  of  this,  and  tea  and  toast  twice  a 
day.    The  goose  this  evening  will  be  an  'extra.'  " 

"Do  you  mean " 

"I  mean  that  you,  like  me,  are  entitled  to  come  in 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  3  I 

here  as  often  as  you  please — our  terms  include  the 
'use  of  sitting-room.*  At  present  we  are  the  only- 
lodgers — and  Mrs.  Tubbs  and  the  children  have  a 
parlor  in  the  basement.  You  may  sit  here  from 
pearly  morn  to  dewy  eve.  Or  you  may  shun  it  ab- 
solutely if  you  choose !  If  you  have  a  preference  for 
solitude,  you  can  appropriate  the  dining-room.  Only 
you  won't  find  a  fire  in  there :  I  buy  these  coals  my- 
self— a  hundred-weight  at  a  time,  for  a  shilling.  If 
you  eventually  decide  upon  the  drawing-room,  I 
think  it  would  be  honorable  if  you  owed  me  six- 
pence." 

She  laughed.     "It's  extraordinary!" 

"It  is!  But  it  happens  to  be  a  fact;  I  have  prac- 
tically the  entire  house.  However,  half  of  it  I'm 
willing  to  resign  to  you  if  you  desire  it.  Into  the 
dining-room  I  will  never  stray." 

"This  evening,"  said  Miss  King,  "I  will  share  the 
responsibility  of  the  'hundred-weight' !  I'll  go  and 
take  off  my  hat." 

Oliphant  stretched  himself  in  an  armchair,  and 
mechanically  rolled  a  cigarette,  and  threw  it  away. 

"Let  me,"  he  said,  when  she  returned,  "show  you 
the  extent  of  your  possessions !  These  windows  open 
on  to  a  balcony,  where  Mrs.  Tubbs  assures  me  it  is 
pleasant  to  sit  in  summer.  Not  having  been  here 
in  summer,  I  cannot  vouch  for  it  personally.  Be- 
yond, lie  beautiful  pleasure-grounds  enclosed  by  rail- 
ings— the  use  of  the  necessary  key  is  also  yours.    To 


32  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

our  left  we  have  Marchmont  Street — on  Saturday 
night  a  busy  thoroughfare;  stalls  illumined  by 
naphtha  may  be  found  here;  and  the  costermongers 
cry:  'Fine  'errings !  Where  yer  like,  laidies — three 
a  penny!'  To  our  right  are  various  railway-stations, 
much  resorted  to  by  such  of  the  population  as  are 
desirous  of  going  somewhere  else.  Behind  us,  if 
I'm  not  mistaken,  is  Mrs.  Tubbs  with  cold  goose!" 

They  turned  to  the  table,  and  Mrs.  Tubbs  said: 

"Well,  it  'ave  cheered  Mr.  Elephant  up  to  meet 
an  old  friend,  Miss,  I  must  say!  I  haven't  'eard 
'im  talk  so  much  since  'e's  been  here.  Might  I  ask 
if  you'll  be  taking  a  part  at  any  of  the  theatres, 
Miss?  I  ain't  in  the  perfession  myself,  but  I'm  that 
interested  in  it,  having  'ad  a  niece  as  took  to  the 
Stage — which  her  name  was  Billing,  and  she  called 
herself  'Clarence,'  and  pooty  she  was ! — going 
against  her  father's  wishes,  having  quarrelled  with 
him,  and  not  my  pore  'usband's  or  mine — though  us 
it  was  that  she  always  blamed  for  spoilin'  her  pros- 
pecks — well,  I  sometimes  seem  to  be  as  good  as  an 
actress  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  though  I'm  not." 

"I'm  not  in  an  engagement  now,"  said  Alma;  "I 
trust  I  shall  be  before  very  long." 

"No,  Miss.  I  'ope  you'll  find  the  tea  to  your 
liking.  She  was  before  your  time,  Miss,  and — ah, 
well,  she's  gone  now,  pore  dear,  like  Tubbs  himself 
— though  there  was  a  coldness  between  'em  to  the 
day  of  her  death.    And  pooty  she  was !    And  might 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  33 

have  been  at  the  Al'ambra  still  but  for  her  father's 
artfulness !" 

"Her  father  didn't  approve,"  said  Oliphant;  "and 
Mr.  Tubbs  urged  her  to  try  dressmaking  instead." 

"Mr.  Tubbs  was  the  tool  of  Mr.  Billing!"  ex- 
plained the  widow  strenuously.  "Mr.  Tubbs  he 
approved!  Me  and  him  was  both  very  proud  to  see 
the  girl  famous-an'-that.  It  was  'er  father  as  made 
the  to-do  and  put  'im  up  to  interfere — though  as 
fond  of  'er  as  if  she'd  been  'is  own — and  speaking 
that  'arsh  she  never  forgot  it.  Mr.  Tubbs  was  the 
tool  of  Mr.  Billing." 

"I've  no  doubt  she  realized  it,  Mrs.  Tubbs,"  said 
Alma;  "she  probably  felt  it  in  her  own  mind." 

"I  'ope  she  did,  pore  dear,  that  I  do !  But  lor, 
it'd  never  do  to  think  too  much  about  these  things, 
would  it?  Is  there  anything  else  you  fancy,  Miss, 
or  Mr.  Elephant,  sir?  If  you  want  any  more  hot 
water  you'll  just  touch  the  bell!" 

"That's  quite  all,  Mrs.  Tubbs,  thank  you,"  he 
said;  "we  shan't  want  anything  else.  Come!"  he 
went  on,  as  she  withdrew;  "was  my  recommenda- 
tion so  bad?  There's  'character'  for  you!  It's 
'Mrs.  Willoughby'  over  again;  still  she's  a  'study.' 
.    .    .    What  are  you  considering?" 

"That  I  thought  it  startling  to  be  crossing  the 
road  with  you  this  afternoon,  and  behold  me  now!" 

"A  piece  more  toast?"  he  said,  passing  the  plate. 
"You  evidently  don't  read  much  fiction,   or  you'd 


34  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

know  that  the  distracted  heroine  finding  peace  in  the 
stranger's  rooms  is  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the 
world.  It's  true  this  ought  to  be  a  handsome  flat, 
or,  at  least,  chambers  in  the  Temple,  but  the  situa- 
tion is  stale — absolutely." 

"Talking  of  situations,"  she  replied,  "you  must 
tell  me  the  story  of  your  play.  And  the  curtain's 
going  up,  and  you  haven't  given  me  the  title !" 

"The  title  is  The  Impostor"  said  Oliphant  slowly. 
"The  curtain  rises  on  the  hall  of  a  country  house — 
the  house  of  the  Countess  of  Plynlimmon.  At  the 
back  there's  a  staircase  leading  to  an  oak  gallery. 
She  and  two  other  women  are  on  the  stage — all 
seated.  Logs  are  burning  in  the  grate — twilight's 
gathering — the  women  have  been  half-asleep;  it's 
just  before  tea.  I  try  to  convey  the  drowsiness  and 
warmth  of  the  moment — it  opens  very  naturally. 
Lady  Plynlimmon's  nephew  lounges  in;  Lady  Maud 
Elstree,  her  daughter,  enters.  The  dialogue  turns 
on  a  guest  there,  Sir  Clement  Thurloe.  Fourteen 
years  before,  he  cut  the  Guards  and  disappeared; 
everyone  believed  him  dead.  Now  he  has  returned 
— causing  an  immense  sensation — and  established 
his  identity.  Excuses  are  made  for  his  youthful 
wildness,  and  Society  receives  him  with  open  arms. 
He  is  reported  to  have  been  everything  in  the  in- 
terval, from  a  sheep-farmer  to  a  sailor  before  the 
mast.  When  the  men  return — they've  been  hunting, 
they're  in  'pink' — he  is,  of  course,  the  central  figure. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  35 

He  speaks  to  Maud  diffidently;  with  everyone  else 
he  is  at  his  ease,  though  he  refers  to  his  unfamiliarity 
with  a  drawing-room.  It's  shown  that  he  is  in  love 
with  her,  and  that  her  mother  hopes  to  see  her  marry 
him." 

"Is  'Maud'  a  good  part?"  inquired  the  actress. 

"Yes,  as  good  as  his,  I  think.  You  would  look 
it  magnificently.  It  isn't  until  the  Act  is  nearly  over 
that  it's  sprung  upon  the  audience  that  he  is  an  im- 
postor; I  think  it  should  be  a  big  effect!  A  'Mrs. 
Vaughan'  has  arrived  to  see  him — of  course  he's  on 
the  stage  alone.  He  says  that  her  intrusion  here  is 
an  outrage — he  has  given  her  a  house,  an  income, 
a  carriage!  what  more  does  she  want?  She  says 
she  wants  their  compact  fulfilled:  introductions,  so- 
ciety, the  chance  to  make  a  brilliant  match.  'What's 
the  use  of  a  house  where  nobody  comes?  I  bore 
myself  to  death  in  it!'  She  is  an  adventuress  who 
has  been — who  has  been  a  friend  of  the  real  man's 
in  New  Zealand,  and  expected  to  be  made  his  wife. 
When  he  died  in  delirium  tremens,  she  suggested  to 
the  protagonist  that  he  should  take  advantage  of 
his  likeness  to  Sir  Clement  Thurloe,  and  her  pos- 
session of  a  diary  and  letters,  to  personate  him. 
Then  there's  an  outburst  of  'Clement's'  in  which  he 
cries  that  he  wishes  to  God  he'd  never  listened  to 
her:  'I  was  ready  enough  to  "take  the  hand,"  I  own 
it!  But  somehow — I  don't  know  how  it  is — now  I 
come  to  "play  it  out,"  it's  different.     When  a  fellow 


36  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

calls  himself  my  "pal" — when  a  good  woman's 
standing  by  my  side — I'd  give  all  I've  stolen  to  be 
a  beggar  and  a  gentleman  again!'  " 

"Well?"  said  the  "audience." 

"Well,  the  interview  is  interrupted  by  Lady  Plyn- 
limmon's  voice:  'Oh,  my  fan,  please;  I've  forgotten 
it!'  Rhoda  Vaughan  insists  on  her  rights.  'Clement' 
beseeches  her.  She  won't  budge.  Lady  Plynlimmon 
comes  down  the  staircase,  and  the  Act  ends  with  the 
man,  as  white  as  death,  introducing  the  adventuress 
into  the  home  of  the  aristocrat  he  loves." 

"The  'villain'  is  the  hero?"  said  Miss  King. 

"He  isn't  depicted  as  a  hero.  The  world's  been 
against  him,  and  he  sinned  when  he  was  worn  out 
with  struggling.  He  felt  that  he  owed  Society  noth- 
ing— that's  the  idea.     Then  he  meets  Maud!" 

"You  give  away  'the  element  of  surprise'  in  your 
title;  still  it's  good!  I  don't  see  any  actor-manager 
playing  'Clement,'  though!  What  is  the  reason  that 
the  modern  hero  is  supposed  to  lose  'the  sympathy 
of  the  audience'  if  he  isn't  immutably  noble,  while 
the  modern  heroine  may  violate  the  Decalogue? 
I'm  sorry  'Clement'  is  a  thief.  Of  course,  he's  only 
robbing  the  'Crown'  ?  the  Crown  can  afford  the  loss, 
I  suppose — it  won't  keep  the  Crown  awake  at  night. 
Still  a  thief  is  low." 

"But  a  rogue  is  human.  I  don't  defend  him;  I'm 
not  his  advocate !     I  show  his  sin  and  his  suffer- 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  37 

ing.  He  is  essentially  weak — the  girl  he  loves  is  to 
be  won  for  the  asking " 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  he  actually  marries 
Maud?" 

"Ah,  but  the  temptation!"  exclaimed  Oliphant. 
"You  shall  hear!" 

He  told  her  the  rest  when  they  drew  to  the 
hearth;  drifted  from  debate  to  reminiscence — re- 
counting, with  the  eager  egotism  that  is  bred  of 
loneliness,  something  of  his  boyhood,  and  receiving 
impressions  of  her  own  life — suggestive,  feminine — 
in  return.  He  felt  that  she  was  turning  the  pages  of 
his  history  across  his  shoulder;  and,  though  he  had 
jestingly  declared  her  position  here  to  be  ordinary, 
it  constantly  surprised  him  when  he  reflected  that 
only  a  few  hours  before  they  were  both  companion- 
less,  and  had  never  spoken  to  each  other.  The 
room,  which  had  always  appeared  to  him  depressing, 
had  this  evening  an  air  of  gaiety  and  of  home.  Even 
when  they  were  silent,  he  found  it  fortifying  to  look 
at  her;  and  even  when  he  did  not  look  at  her,  it  was 
delightful  to  know  that  she  was  there.  At  ten  o'clock 
she  rose  and  said  "Good  night" ;  but  the  magic 
lingered  with  him  after  she  had  gone.  The  atmos- 
phere was  for  once  exhilarating,  and  the  throb  of  the 
unexpected  was  in  it  still. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  rehearsal  of  the  drama  in  which  Oliphant 
was  to  commence  his  siege  of  London  had  been  called 
for  eleven  o'clock  the  following  day.  He  saw  Miss 
King  for  a  few  minutes  only  before  leaving  the 
house,  but  received  her  permission  to  try  to  recover 
her  belongings  for  her.  This  was  a  task  which  the 
threat  of  legal  proceedings,  and  a  written  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  debt,  assisted  him  to  accomplish 
without  much  difficulty.  He  conveyed  the  trunk  to 
Burton  Crescent  by  means  of  a  hansom,  and  then 
walked  through  the  muddy  streets  to  the  Queen's 
Theatre. 

The  Queen's  had  recently  been  obtained  by  an 
actor  who  was  assuming  the  management  of  a  the- 
atre for  the  first  time.  He  had  been  a  "leading 
man"  for  about  fifteen  years  now,  but  the  manager 
only  of  a  few  tours.  For  this  production,  in  which 
the  hero's  part  was  exceedingly  strong,  he  had  se- 
lected the  Company  with  the  utmost  care;  and,  ex- 
cepting perhaps  the  "Villain,"  there  was  not  a  mem- 
ber of  it  in  whom  he  need  fear  a  rival. 

The  stage  was  dark  and  draughty.     When  Oli- 

38 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  39 

phant  reached  it  nobody  had  come  but  the  prompter, 
who  stood  by  a  small  table,  overlooking  the  empty 
orchestra  and  the  auditorium  swathed  in  holland. 
His  hands  were  plunged  in  the  pockets  of  his  over- 
coat, and  he  shivered.  He  paid  small  attention  to 
the  other's  advent,  because  he  was  to  be  described 
on  the  playbills  as  "Assistant  Stage-manager,"  and 
Oliphant  was  playing  a  small  part.  In  the  position 
which  he  had  filled  on  tour,  Oliphant  would  have 
joined  him  at  the  table;  in  the  position  that  he  filled 
here,  theatrical  etiquette  forbade  it.  He  walked  up 
and  down  in  the  wings,  and  questioned  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  if,  with  such  lines  as  he  had  to  utter, 
Edmund  Kean  himself  could  have  created  an  effect. 
The  other  subordinates  commenced  to  assemble 
and  to  hang  about  with  him.  They  watched  the 
Principals  arrive,  and  stroll  to  the  table  unabashed; 
and  tried  to  hear  what  they  talked  about,  and  envied 
them  their  lustrous  boots,  which  showed  that  they 
had  come  in  cabs.  The  "Villain"  recounted  a  funny 
incident  to  the  leading  lady,  and  she  laughed  merrily 
without  having  grasped  the  joke:  his  salary  was  un- 
derstood to  be  thirty  pounds  a  week,  and  she  was 
only  beginning.  Besides,  the  celebrated  actor  under 
whom  she  had  studied,  and  who  had  procured  her 
the  engagement,  had  always  declared  that  her  laugh 
was  her  strong  point.  The  low  comedian  demanded 
of  the  prompter  when  they  were  "going  to  have  the 
floats,"     There  was  considerable  delay  about  this, 


40  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

and  general  expectancy;  and  then  the  footlights 
ameliorated  the  gloom  a  little,  and  the  leading  lady, 
who  was  very  charming,  bent  over  the  blaze  of  light 
in  a  pretty  attitude  to  warm  her  hands.  The  "small 
part  women"  in  the  wings  looked  additionally  miser- 
able, as  they  gazed  at  her,  and  the  men  inquired  ir- 
ritably among  themselves  why  the  devil  they  were 
"called"  for  eleven.  Only  one,  a  youth  who  had 
twenty  words  to  deliver,  affected  to  be  oblivious  to 
his  surroundings.  He  sauntered  to  and  fro,  mut- 
tering and  gesticulating,  stimulated  by  the  secret 
thought  that  somebody  of  importance  might  com- 
ment on  his  enthusiasm. 

A  little  man,  with  a  hopeless  expression,  crept 
down  to  the  footlights,  and  was  greeted  with  cordi- 
ality— especially  by  the  young  leading  lady.  He  was 
the  author.  He  had  a  roll  of  manuscript  in  his  hand, 
which  represented  the  alterations  he  had  been  urged 
to  make  at  the  last  rehearsal.  He  was  wondering 
what  further  misfortunes  would  befall  him  and  his 
drama  to-day. 

Signs  of  impatience  might  be  detected  on  the  faces 
of  the  Principals  also  now;  but  the  actor  who  had 
a  theatre  for  the  first  time  felt  it  due  to  himself  to 
keep  the  Company  waiting.  He  strode  through  the 
wings  presently,  ignoring  the  minor  members — who 
scattered  to  let  him  pass — and,  reaching  the  prompt- 
table,  raised  his  hat  about  half  an  inch. 

"  'Morning,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  curtly 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  41 

to  the  group  about  him.  He  made  some  remark 
to  the  author  about  the  weather,  and  turned  to  the 
assistant  stage-manager,  whom  he  adressed  as  "Mr. 
Mote."  He  was  fat,  and  held  himself  stiffly  erect, 
endeavoring  to  palliate  by  his  carriage  the  loss  of 
his  figure.  In  manner  he  was  arrogant,  and  he  had 
very  frequently  the  air  of  swelling — as  often  as  he 
wished  to  assert  his  dignity  in  private,  or  to  express 
emotion  in  a  role. 

"Clear  the  stage,  please!"  cried  Mr.  Mote,  clap- 
ping his  hands  twice.  "Act  two,  scene  one !  Sentry ! 
Come  on,  Mr. — er — Williams,  please — Act  two, 
scene  one !" 

The  youth  who  had  been  immersed  in  study  hur- 
ried nervously  to  that  part  of  the  stage  where  he 
fancied  he  was  supposed  to  be  standing  on  a  battle- 
ment bathed  in  moonlight;  but  he  was  not  certain 
that  he  wasn't  meant  to  be  in  a  corridor,  looking  out 
of  a  window.  This  lent  an  indecision  to  his  move- 
ments.    He  said: 

"It's  a  fine  night.    How  quiet  it  is !" 

At  the  same  moment  concealed  carpenters  com- 
menced to  hammer  furiously.  The  youth  looked 
disconcerted,  but  nobody  else  took  any  notice. 

"  'How  quiet  it  is !'  "  repeated  the  assistant  stage- 
manager.  "Enter  the  Colonel.  'Colonel,'  please! 
Mr. — er — Fowler! — 'How  quiet  it  is'!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon  !" 

The  "Colonel"  rushed  forward.     The  rehearsal 


42  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

proceeded,  and  some  of  the  women  in  the  wings 
found  chairs,  and  chatted  in  undertones.  The  lead- 
ing lady  begged  the  "Villain"  to  advise  her  how  she 
should  "do  her  faint"  when  her  lover  was  sentenced 
to  be  shot;  and  they  moved  together  to  where  there 
was  space  for  him  to  demonstrate  his  conception  of 
a  young  girl's  behavior  at  this  crisis.  She  confessed 
she  was  sure  she  should  "find  that  flight  of  steps  per- 
fectly dreadful!"  and  he  assured  her  cynically  that 
there  were  not  many  actresses  who  would  object  "to 
be  given  a  flight  of  steps  to  faint  on."  As  to  her 
train — well,  it  was  difficult  to  show  her !  But  there 
was  a  way — if  she  half-turned,  and  bent  so,  as  she 
collapsed,  it  would  fall  "down  stage,"  and  the 
"picture  would  be  excellent."  The  "Adventuress" 
discussed  her  baby's  first  tooth,  and  the  danger  of 
convulsions,  with  the  low  comedian,  who,  as  a  family 
man,  spoke  authoritatively;  and  by  the  side  of  the 
author,  who  sucked  his  umbrella  handle,  the  "Hero" 
sat,  shouting  comments,  and  rising  from  time  to 
time  to  bluster  with  more  violence. 

The  humble  aspirants  who  incurred  his  displeasure 
stammered  and  turned  pink;  and  one  girl,  whose 
arm  he  grasped  with  such  force  as  to  hurt  her,  in 
indicating  the  "business"  he  desired,  looked  like  dis- 
solving into  tears.  The  most  luckless  during  the 
morning,  however,  were  two  old  men.  They  had 
been  in  the  theatres  all  their  lives,  but  had  sunk, 
from  the  small  positions  they  had  once   attained; 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  43 

to-day  they  were  scarcely  above  the  grade  of  super- 
numeraries. The  younger  might  have  been  nearly 
sixty,  but  he  remained  burly  and  rubicund;  the  other, 
though  probably  not  much  more,  appeared  to  be  his 
senior  by  fully  a  decade.  In  his  tightly  buttoned 
frock-coat,  painfully  thin  and  shabby,  he  was  the 
neatest  and  most  pathetic  little  figure  to  be  conceived, 
as  he  struggled  to  avoid  the  fiery  impatience  of  the 
"Hero's"  rebukes.  The  beautiful  old  face  grew 
troubled  by  his  eagerness  to  understand  what  was 
required  of  him;  and  occasionally,  as  the  actor 
stamped  and  bellowed,  he  glanced  at  the  spectators, 
as  if  fearing  that  his  humiliation  must  excite  their 
ridicule. 

He  escaped  into  the  wings  at  last,  and  leaning 
against  the  wall  of  the  scene-dock,  consumed  a  sand- 
wich, which  served  him  for  his  dinner,  out  of  a  piece 
of  newspaper. 

Some  hitch  occurred;  lines  which  had  not  been  al- 
lotted yet  had  to  be  spoken  at  this  juncture. 

"What  are  we  waiting  for?"  demanded  the 
"Hero."    "Get  on,  Mr.  Mote,  please." 

Mr.  Mote  explained  meekly  that  the  part  of  the 
"Lieutenant"  was  not  cast;  and  there  was  a  few 
moments'  consultation  as  to  which  of  the  actors  had 
better  "double"  it.  The  "Hero's"  gaze  fell  on 
Oliphant. 

"Here,  you !"  he  said,  beckoning;  "you  can  double 
this." 


44  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

Oliphant  took  the  type-written  half-sheet  among 
envious  glances  from  the  other  "small  part  men"; 
and  glancing  at  the  indication  at  the  top,  crossed 
the  stage,  and  began  to  read. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  that,  few  as  the  lines 
were,  they  gave  the  player  scope  to  distinguish  him- 
self. He  was  supposed  to  stagger  on  wounded,  with 
a  tale  of  distant  disaster,  and  appeal  to  the 
"Colonel"  to  despatch  aid  to  his  comrades.  The 
performance  might  have  no  more  than  the  clap-trap 
effect  of  the  sudden  entrance,  and  the  reel  down  the 
"raking-piece" ;  or  it  might  be  one  that  would  rivet 
the  attention  of  every  critic  in  the  house.  He  saw 
it  more  fully  with  every  word  he  delivered:  the 
chance  at  that  point  for  a  break  in  the  voice;  the 
effort  to  be  strenuous,  and  the  exhaustion  that  for- 
bade it;  the  horror  in  the  man's  eyes  as  he  described 
— and  saw  again — the  scene  from  which  he  had 
come !  A  genius  with  an  opportunity  like  this  could 
have  made  the  success  of  the  evening.  He  read  well 
at  sight  customarily;  in  his  gratification  he  read  bet- 
ter than  usual;  and  the  author,  who  had  fallen  in 
love  with  the  lines  as  he  wrote  them,  ceased  to  suck 
the  handle  of  his  umbrella,  and  reflected  with  a 
pleasant  smile  that  there  were  "damn  few  men  in 
London  who  could  equal  his  dialogue!" 

The  brief  speech  came  to  an  end;  the  "Lieuten- 
ant" swooned;  and  Mr.  Mote  called  "Captain 
Harwood" ! 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  45 

"Where's  'Captain  Harwood'?"  he  said,  looking 
round. 

"/  play  'Captain  Harwood,'  "  said  Oliphant 
blankly. 

The  hitch  was  repeated — there  was  renewed  con- 
sideration. It  was  impossible  that  Oliphant  could 
play  the  "Lieutenant"  if  he  played  "Captain  Har- 
wood," for  both  characters  had  to  be  on  the  stage 
at  the  same  time. 

"Well,  somebody  else  must  double  the  'Lieuten- 
ant,' "  said  the  "Hero."  "Mr. — er— Mortimer's 
not  on  in  this  scene;  he  can  do  it." 

Oliphant  looked  at  him  in  dismay. 

"Would  you  mind  somebody  else  playing  'Cap- 
tain Harwood'  and  my  keeping  the  'Lieutenant'?" 
he  asked.     "I  like  it  much  the  better  of  the  two." 

The  "Hero"  made  an  instant's  pause.  It  was  in- 
tended to  convey  amazement  at  the  other's  presump- 
tion in  questioning  his  decision. 

"We  won't  discuss  which  of  the  two  you  like  best, 
if  you  please,"  he  said  imperatively.  "Mr.  Morti- 
mer! Come  here  !  .  .  .  You'll  study  the  part  of 
the  'Lieutenant'  by  to-morrow;  Mr.  Mote  will  give 
it  you.  .  .  .  Go  on,  Mr. — er — Oliphant;  take  up 
your  cue,  please — Enter  'Captain  Harwood' !" 

The  rehearsal  was  resumed,  and  Oliphant  went 
through  his  daily  task  like  an  automaton.  That 
flash  of  hope  was  already  extinguished.  He  had  not 
realized  how  great  his  delight  had  been  at  the  pros- 


46  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

pect  opened  to  him  until  the  speedy  disappointment 
revealed  it.  His  heart  felt  like  lead  within  him,  and 
he  was  glad  when  he  was  free  to  efface  himself,  and 
lament  and  smoke  in  comparative  privacy  at  the 
stage-door.  But  he  had  to  go  back,  to  speak  a  single 
line  in  another  Act. 

The  author  observed  his  return,  and  went  over  to 
him;  he  regretted  the  "Hero's"  high-handed  ar- 
rangement for  the  sake  of  the  young  man,  and  also 
for  the  sake  of  the  piece,  Mr.  Mortimer's  per- 
formance in  the  new  part  would  not  be  startling,  to 
judge  by  the  stolidity  he  displayed  in  the  one  he  was 
rehearsing  already. 

"It  was  a  pity  you  didn't  keep  the  'Lieutenant,' 
Mr.  Oliphant,  I  think,"  he  remarked;  "you  read  it 
very  well." 

Oliphant  knew  the  glow  that  comes  to  every  young 
actor  when  one  in  authority  praises  him.  And  it 
was  the  first  time  he  had  been  addressed  by  the 
author. 

"You  may  imagine  /'m  sorry;  but  you  saw  what 
happened,  Mr.  Campbell,"  he  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

"Yes;  but  it's  a  pity;  you  were  very  good  indeed. 
I'll  speak  about  it  afterwards,  and  see  what  can  be 
done." 

The  "Hero"  had  just  been  murmuring  noble 
sentiments,  which  would  eventually  be  delivered  for- 
tissimo, and  as  he  made  his  exit,  the  sight  of  Oliphant 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  47 

and  the  dramatist  together  met  his  eye.  He  stalked 
across  to  them,  with  a  swollen  chest  and  distended 
nostrils. 

"What  do  you  mean,"  he  exclaimed,  "by  appeal- 
ing to  Mr.  Campbell  against  me?    How  dare  you?" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  author,  "he  didn't.  It  was  I 
who  spoke  to  Mr.  Oliphant." 

"/  am  Manager  in  this  theatre,"  continued  the 
actor  passionately,  disregarding  the  explanation. 
"Be  good  enough  to  understand  that,  Mr.  Oliphant, 
once  and  for  all!  If  you're  not  satisfied  with  the 
part  you're  playing,  you're  not  obliged  to  play  any- 
thing, you  can  resign  your  engagement.  I  have  said 
you  play  'Captain  Harwood,'  and  that's  the  end  of 
it.  No,  Campbell,  my  boy!  No,  no,  my  boy!  I 
can't  allow  that  sort  of  thing — I  can't!" 

There  was  a  second  in  which  Oliphant  was 
tempted  fiercely  to  answer  that  he  did  resign  his  en- 
gagement, but  the  knowledge  of  the  straits  the  in- 
dulgence would  entail  him  held  him  dumb.  Though 
he  had  been  in  the  theatrical  profession  seven  years, 
this  was  the  first  experience  he  had  had  of  a  man- 
agerial bully  like  the  "Hero,"  and  he  was  sick  with 
shame  and  rage. 

His  line  in  the  ensuing  Act  was  no  sooner  uttered 
than  he  left  the  building.  He  had  quite  forgotten 
Alma  King;  his  consciousness  at  the  moment  was 
only  of  the  part  that  had  been  torn  from  him,  and 
of  the  insult  he  had  been  compelled  to  swallow.     It 


48  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

was  when  five  minutes  had  passed  that  the  remem- 
brance that  he  would  find  her  in  the  lodging  recurred 
to  him;  and  fortified  a  trifle  by  the  recollection  he 
hastened  homeward  to  relate  the  occurrence. 

She  was  at  the  table  in  the  drawing-room,  writing 
letters — applications  for  engagement.  A  copy  of 
the  Stage  lay  near  the  cheap  stationery  and  the  penny 
bottle  of  ink. 

"Am  I  in  the  way?"  he  inquired. 

"Why  should  you  be  in  the  way?  It's  I  who 
ought  to  ask  that.     Well?" 

"Well,  it  isn't  well,"  he  said.  "I'm  angry!  miser- 
able! discouraged!"  He  burst  out  with  the  tale  of 
what  had  happened,  and  the  sympathy  in  her  face 
was  sweet  to  him  as  he  reached  the  point.  "If  only 
I  could  have  afforded  to  answer  the  cad!"  he  ex- 
claimed; "I  think  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  that  I 
didn't!" 

"It's  at  times  like  this  that  poverty  scalds !"  she 
said.  "I  know  your  feeling  exactly — I've  had  it  so 
often.  But  you  were  perfectly,  perfectly  right  not 
to  throw  your  part  up — it  would  have  been  insane ! 
You  might  have  had  to  wait  months  for  another 
chance  in  town!" 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  said  Oliphant,  "that  / 
was  right.  But  all  the  same,  it's  just  one  of  those 
instances  of  his  wisdom  that  a  man  isn't  proud  to 
recall." 

"You're  inclined  to  be  morbid,  aren't  you?"  said 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  49 

Miss  King  thoughtfully.  "In  the  way  you  look  at 
things  generally?    Just  a  little  !" 

He  flushed.  "I've  never  been  told  so  before.  It's 
— well,  I've  been  a  good  deal  alone:  perhaps  it's 
due  to  that,  if  I  am !" 

'I  think  you  are!  .  .  .  You  look  as  if  I  had 
accused  you  of  a  crime!" 

"You  took  me  aback,  rather.  It  sounds  weak, 
too!     Do  you  think  I'm  weak?" 

"I  should  say  you  are — emotional.  .  .  .  Well, 
'weak'  as  well  then,  yes ! — in  some  ways.  ...  I 
don't  think  you  will  be  spoilt  by  success  if  you  get  it! 
that's  the  greatest  test  of  character." 

"Poverty  is  supposed  to  be  the  greatest  test,"  he 
said. 

uYes,  but  I  don't  believe  it  is.  Poverty  hardens 
a  character  by  degrees;  but  success  lays  it  bare  in  a 
flash.  You  would  be  very  nice  to  the  'small  people,' 
if  you  were  a  manager,  I'm  sure.  If  you  were  the 
manager,  for  example,  I  should  receive  an  answer 
to  this.11  She  pointed  to  one  of  the  letters  beside 
her. 

"What  is  it  for?"  asked  Oliphant;  "is  it  anything 
worth  having?" 

"It  is  an  appeal  for  a  second-rate  part  in  a  fifth- 
rate  Company,"  she  replied.  "If  I  am  fortunate, 
I  shall  play  in  a  different  town  every  other  night, 
and  search  for  a  new  lodging  every  other  day.     The 


50  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

advertisement  concludes:  'People  who  can't  keep 
sober,  save  stamps!'  " 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  the  man;  "you  don't  mean 
to  say  you  apply  for  those  things?  They're  not 
addressed  to  you!  Have  you  ever  travelled  in  a 
Portable?" 

"No;  I  can  imagine  what  it  is  like,  though,  fully." 

"But  they  don't  want  an  artist,  Miss  King;  they 
don't  want  an  actress !  Do  you  know  what  the  audi- 
ence that  you  would  play  to  is  like?  Do  you  know 
what  the  salary  is  like?  Have  you  any  idea  what 
the  Company  is  like  that  you  would  be  with?  You 
wouldn't  be  able  to  endure  the  engagement  for  a 
fortnight  if  you  got  it !" 

The  girl's  gesture  had  dignity  as  well  as  weariness. 

"You  seem  to  forget,"  she  said  quietly;  "I  am 
not  in  a  position  to  consider  these  drawbacks.  I'm 
here  on  your  introduction — with  only  a  few  shillings 
in  the  world;  and  I  owe  money  at  the  house  I  have 
left.  I'm  not  afraid  your  landlady  would  turn  me 
out  in  a  week's  time — or  even  in  a  month's :  she 
trusts  me — and  you !  But  what  kind  of  woman 
should  I  be  if  I  took  advantage  of  your  introduction 
and  her  confidence?" 

"I  don't  suggest  you  should  take  any  advantage 
at  all,"  he  rejoined;  "but  there's  such  a  thing  as 
being  too  conscientious.  It  would  be  'too  conscien- 
tious' if  you  hampered  your  career  rather  than 
accept  a  few  weeks'  credit,  or  a  friend's  help.     For 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  5  I 

you  would  hamper  your  career — once  plunge  into  an 
entourage  like  that,  and  you  increase  the  difficulties 
of  'arriving'  tenfold.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  makes 
no  difference  to  Mrs.  Tubbs  if  she  gets  her  rent 
every  Monday  or  every  month;  she  doesn't  depend 
on  letting  lodgings  for  her  livelihood — if  she  did, 
she'd  be  in  the  workhouse !  she  has  some  share  in  a 
business  that  her  brother  has;  he's  an  upholsterer 
in  Mabledon  Place." 

"I  shan't  take  such  an  engagement  if  I  can  get  an 
ordinary  one  quickly,  you  may  be  sure,"  she  said; 
"it  will  have  to  be  my  sole  resource.  But  I  know 
the  meaning  of  'duty' ! — it's  my  duty  to  sacrifice  my 
interests,  and  pay.  I've  never  done  anything  I  knew 
to  be  wrong  in  my  life.  Oh,  I  don't  forget  I  let  a 
stranger  speak  to  me  yesterday — and  I  can't  com- 
plain if  you  think  it  wasn't  the  first  time! — and  I 
asked  him  in  to  my  room;  and  it  was  a  mistake  that 
I  shall  regret  to  the  day  I  die  !  But  it  wasn't  wrong! 
And  you  know  it  wasn't  'wrong';  and  God  knows 
there  was  no  more  of  'wrong'  in  my  heart  when  I 
opened  that  door  to  you  than  if  we  had  both  been 
children.  I  regret  it — I  always  shall — but  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  it;  if  I  were  ashamed,  I'm  afraid  my 
goodness  would  go  altogether,  and  I  couldn't  live ! 
I'm  not  going  to  despise  myself  now,  and  be  a 
coward,  and  contemptible,  rather  than  sacrifice  my 
art." 

"I  won't  urge  you  to  do  anything  you're  opposed 


52  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

to,"  responded  Oliphant  slowly,  after  a  moment  had 
passed;  "but  youVe  said  one  thing  I  want  to  answer; 
it  meant  you  couldn't  complain  if — if  I  were  ignor- 
ant enough  to  think  lightly  of  you.  I  should  like 
you  to  hear  me  say  that  I  respect  you  more  than  any 
woman  I've  ever  met." 

The  subject  of  her  endeavors  was  not  resumed 
until  the  morrow,  when  he  was  leaving  for  the 
Queen's.  Then  she  announced  an  intention  of  call- 
ing again  on  all  the  dramatic  agents  who  had  her 
name  on  their  books;  and  he  walked  some  part  of 
the  way  to  the  Strand  beside  her. 

The  thought  of  what  doubtless  awaited  her  in  these 
offices,  towards  which  scores  of  other  women,  equally 
avid  of  employment,  were  hurrying  from  all  quar- 
ters of  London  at  the  same  time,  forbade  boldness 
to  them  both,  and  Oliphant  parted  from  her  with 
small  expectation  of  hearing  good  news  when  they 
met  at  tea. 

His  haste  to  escape  from  the  theatre  the  previous 
afternoon  had  left  him  uncertain  of  the  hour  at 
which  the  rehearsal  would  commence  this  morning, 
but  glancing  at  the  call-board  as  he  entered  the 
passage,  he  found  that  his  assumption  had  been  cor- 
rect. The  "Hero,"  however,  was  already  on  the 
stage,  and  it  was  immediately  evident  by  his  ex- 
pression that  his  resentment  was  not  forgotten.  He 
stalked  across  to  the  young  man  directly  he  caught 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  53 

sight  of  him,  his  chest  and  nostrils  expanded  to  their 
fullest  capacity. 

"Oh — er — I  shan't  want  you  for  the  piece  at  all, 
Mr.  Oliphant,"  he  said  haughtily;  "give  your  part 
back  to  Mr.  Mote,  please.  You  aren't — er — tall 
enough." 

6 


CHAPTER  IV 

There  was  no  written  agreement;  Oliphant  had 
been  engaged,  as  hundreds  of  actors  and  actresses 
are  engaged  every  year,  by  word  of  mouth.  Even 
if  it  had  been  otherwise,  he  could  not  have  afforded 
to  test  the  legality  of  the  reprisal.  He  was  dis- 
missed— because  the  author  had  condoled  with  him 
on  the  "Hero's"  autocracy.  "Nothing  happens  but 
the  unforeseen" :  the  actor  had  left  the  lodging,  to 
attend  a  rehearsal,  confident  of  drawing  two  pounds 
a  week  during  the  run  of  the  play;  the  actress  had 
left  it,  desponding,  to  make  the  round  of  the  agents. 
The  man  returned  without  a  prospect;  and  the  girl 
came  back  with  an  "offer." 

She  was  offered  an  engagement  to  go  to  South 
Africa.  The  Manager,  who  had  come  to  London 
for  the  purpose  of  organizing  a  Company,  had  been 
in  the  second  office  that  she  entered — had  noticed 
her,  asked  the  agent  her  name,  and  concluded  the 
arrangement  on  the  spot.  Of  course  she  had  to 
prove  herself  competent  at  rehearsals;  but  on  this 
point  she  had  no  misgivings,  and  she  was  overjoyed. 

"It  was  the  purest  chance !"  she  cried.  "He  has 
54 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  55 

been  here  a  fortnight,  and  Ash  has  never  mentioned 
him  to  me — or  me  to  him.  If  I  had  been  five 
minutes  later,  he  would  have  gone;  and  I  shouldn't 
even  have  known  I  had  missed  an  opportunity.  But, 
of  course,  I  shall  have  to  pay  Ash  his  commission 
just  the  same — it  was  in  his  office."  She  paused 
inquiringly.  "Is  anything  the  matter  ?"  she  asked. 
"Has  it  been  unpleasant  again  to-day  ?" 

Oliphant  told  her  briefly  what  had  occurred. 

What  could  she  say?  The  first  effect  of  sympathy 
is  to  weight  the  sympathizer's  tongue,  and  the  second 
is  to  render  her  self-conscious.  "I  am  so  sorry," 
murmured  Miss  King,  continuing  to  hear  the  echo 
of  the  vapid  answer  for  ten  seconds.  "What  shall 
you  do?"  she  continued. 

"I  must  look  for  something  else." 

"In  London?" 

"Oh  yes,  in  London;  at  all  events  in  London  as 
yet.  I  want  to  get  in,  I  want  to  get  in !  The  stage- 
doors  are  stouter  than  the  starling's  bars !  But 
I've  been  hurling  myself  against  them  too  long  to 
turn  away  and  pretend  the  grapes  are  sour  now. 
They're  sweet,  Miss  King;  they're  luscious;  and  my 
mouth's  watering  for  them !" 

"You  might  come  back  to  the  charge  all  the 
stronger  for  a  rest,"  she  suggested. 

"Yes,  and  all  the  older — don't  forget  that.  I  left 
the  provinces  swearing  to  obtain  a  hearing  here. 
I've  applied  everywhere.     I've  tramped  the  streets, 


$6  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

and  worn  out  my  boots,  and  the  sinews  of  war  are 
reduced  to  shillings:  I'm  not  going  to  feel  that  all 
that  has  been  thrown  away  while  I've  my  health  and 
a  watch  and  chain.  London  owes  me  for  the  energy 
I've  expended !  And  one  of  these  days  it's  going  to 
pay  me  for  it — with  compound  interest.  If  I  re- 
turned to  the  provinces  now,  I  should  feel  that  I 
,had  made  a  bad  debt;  and  the  thought  that  I'd  made 
a  bad  debt  would  make  me  a  bad  actor;  and  if  I 
were  a  bad  actor,  I  should  have  no  excuse  for  exist- 
ing in  this  overcrowded  world  at  all!     If  I'm  not 

an  actor,  I'm  nothing,  and This  is  not  strength 

of  character,  it's  hysteria,  to  be  perfectly  truthful; 
I  don't  suppose  I  could  get  a  provincial  engagement 
before  the  spring  if  I  tried!" 

"Haven't  you  any  friends?" 

"Haven't  I  any  friends?"  he  repeated  medita- 
tively. "Well,  I've  relations;  I  go  to  see  them  oc- 
casionally— when  I've  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  They 
are  not  in  the  profession — nor  in  England,  at  the 
present  time — so  we  needn't  take  them  into  account. 
But,  yes,  I  have  a  friend — I've  an  extraordinary 
friend — I've  a  friend  who,  I  honestly  believe,  would 
lend  me  a  thousand  pounds  if  I  asked  him  for  it." 

She  looked  to  see  if  he  was  serious.  "Is  this 
hysteria  too?" 

"No,  this  is  a  sober  fact.  I  was  at  Oxford  with 
him,  and  we  were  very  chummy.  He  had  leanings 
towards  Literature,  and  every  qualification  for  em- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  57 

bracing  it,  including  the  most  important — it  didn't 
matter  to  him  in  the  least  if  he  never  made  it  pay. 
He  was  worth  about  ten  thousand  a  year  when  he 
was  nine  years  old.  We  haven't  met  very  often 
lately,  but  I'm  bound  to  admit  that  that's  entirely 
my  fault.  When  I  do  dine  with  him,  I  find  him  as 
good  a  fellow  as  ever  he  was.  I  should  be  very 
fond  of  him  if  he  hadn't  untold  wealth  like  the  prince 
in  a  fairy  tale;  I  struggled  with  the  'ten  thousand 
a  year,'  but  the  accumulations  of  his  minority  were 
the  last  straw!" 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  believe  that,  I'm  sure?" 
she  said. 

"Why  not — does  it  sound  petty?  Perhaps  I 
didn't  express  myself  very  well;  I  mean  we  should 
still  be  pals  if  he  weren't  so  rich.  Two  men  whose 
lives  are  antithetical  can't  be  very  'pally,'  you  know. 
A  very  rich  man  and  a  very  poor  one  may  like  each 
other  extremely — they  may  find  each  other  very 
estimable  and  interesting — but  they  can't  find  each 
other  so  companionable  as  if  they  were  both 
flush,  or  both  beggars.  Otho  Fairbairn  keeps 
racehorses,  and — and  is  a  dear  good  fellow.  But  / 
find  it  difficult  to  keep  myself;  and  though  we've 
points  in  common,  I'm  perfectly  aware  that  by  the 
time  we've  finished  a  cigar  each,  he  begins  to  feel  the 
evening  would  be  livelier  if  he'd  asked  a  'chappie' 
who  was  going  down  to  Kempton,  too,  next  day. 
Abstractions  pall!     I  can  talk  to  you  much  more 


58  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

freely  than  I  can  to  Fairbairn,  though  I've  known 
him  for  years.  .  .  .  Tell  me — you  go  to  the 
Cape  with  a  repertoire,  of  course?  What  are  the 
pieces?" 

She  named  them — one  was  running  at  a  West 
End  house.  "I'm  to  go  to  see  it;  I  shall  write  in 
to-day.  If  you  like  I'll  ask  for  two  seats,  and  we 
might  go  together." 

"I'd  like  it  very  much;  I  was  thinking  of  writing 
in  myself.     What  line  are  you  playing?" 

"Oh,  'lead,'  "  she  said. 

"Really?" 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  engaged  for  'lead';  and  the  parts 
are  excellent,  aren't  they?  It  will  be  splendid  experi- 
ence, too,  with  a  repertoire.  It's  a  good  thing  I  have 
my  trunk;  but  even  as  it  is  .  .  .  I  have  to  find 
the  modern  wardrobe  myself,  you  know.  Still  I 
shall  be  all  right  for  the  first  fortnight,  and  I  can 
order  one  or  two  frocks  in  Cape  Town." 

She  did  not  mention  what  her  salary  was  to  be, 
however;  and  in  view  of  the  circumstances,  and  the 
frankness  with  which  she  was  speaking  otherwise, 
the  peculiarity  of  the  reservation  struck  Oliphant  as 
forcibly  as  if  he  were  once  more  a  novice.  He  re- 
membered living  with  an  actor  years  ago,  and  listen- 
ing to  his  domestic  anxieties  until  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  there  was  nothing  the  actor  had 
not  communicated  when  the  tour  came  to  an  end 
excepting  how  much  a  week  he  received.     Past  sal- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  59 

aries  were  quoted;  and  there  were  long  conversations 
about  his  mother's  intemperance  and  the  shortcom- 
ings of  his  wife;  but  his  "terms"  of  to-day  were 
tacitly  understood  to  be  a  sacred  matter. 

With  this  single  exception — the  only  professional 
trait  he  had  observed  in  her — Miss  King  was  candor 
personified.  The  tickets  for  the  theatre  arrived, 
"With  the  acting  manager's  compliments,"  and  she 
and  Oliphant  spent  an  evening  in  the  dress-circle. 
Both  enjoyed  it;  to  be  able  to  lounge  in  a  velvet 
fauteuii  in  evening  dress,  when  he  can  ill  afford  the 
sixpence  for  the  programme,  is  the  one  advantage 
which  the  actor  out  of  work  possesses  over  the  rest 
of  the  Unemployed.  His  dinner  may  have  been 
a  sausage,  and  for  supper  nothing  may  await  him 
at  all;  but  a  draught  of  oblivion  is,  at  least,  per- 
mitted him  by  the  kindly  etiquette  of  "The  Profes- 
sion"; and  many  a  hopeless  heart  has  been  fortified 
by  it. 

Yet  it  is  tantalizing,  sometimes  maddening! 
Sometimes  it  fills  the  breast  of  the  actor  out  of  work 
with  such  longings  that  he  wrings  his  hands  with  de- 
sire— this  view,  from  the  Delectable  Mountains,  of 
the  Celestial  City  whose  gates  are  closed.  Oliphant 
enjoyed  the  performance — to  watch  good  acting 
gave  him  as  keen  a  delight  as  a  musician  derives 
from  a  superb  instrumentalist- — but  to  him  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  evening  was  alloyed  by  the  craving  that 
assailed  him  in  the  entr'actes.     To  Miss  King  there 


60  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

was  no  alloy.  The  girl  foresaw  herself  in  the  role 
of  the  favorite  actress  whom  she  had  come  to  study 
and  to  criticize;  and  it  was  almost  like  witnessing 
her  own  success.  She  sat  recalling  the  "business," 
debating  whether  it  could  be  improved,  and  thrilling 
with  the  anticipation  of  delivering  certain  lines. 

The  epoch  of  the  drama  was  admirably  adapted 
to  her.  She  seemed  created  to  wear  the  robes  of  a 
bygone  age — almost  any  bygone  age — and  move 
among  great  deeds.  She  would  have  looked  lovely 
as  Juliet,  which  she  wanted  to  play;  as  Hypatia, 
which  she  hadn't  thought  of,  she  would  have  been 
ideal;  the  intense  earnestness  of  the  part  was  there 
in  her  face.  Oliphant  was  again  conscious  of  this 
when  they  left  the  building,  and  turned  homeward 
through  the  wet  streets.  He  was  also  conscious  that 
not  one  woman  in  a  hundred,  trembling  with  thanks- 
giving, would  have  divined  his  mood,  and  troubled 
to  assuage  it  by  the  first  remark  she  made: 

"I  think  you  will  be  playing  there  one  day!" 

"I?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  think  so.  If  you  were  as  confident  of  your 
future  as  I  am,  you  would  be  happier." 

"But  why?" 

"How  shall  I  define?  You  are  an  enthusiast — 
there  aren't  so  many  of  them  in  our  profession ! 
But  it  isn't  that  either — I  suppose  enthusiasts  fail 
too.  You  impress  me  with  the  idea  that  you'll  suc- 
ceed, and  I've  never  had  the  conviction  about  anyone 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  6 1 

else.  If  I've  been  curious  about  people  at  all,  it  has 
been  to  wonder  why  on  earth  they  ever  took  to  the 
Stage !" 

"Because  it's  the  laziest  life!" 

"So  it  may  be;  don't  you  study?" 

"Oh,  /  do ;  but  have  you  been  on  many  tours  where 
the  people  did?" 

"Of  course  one  can  take  it  easy,  if  one  likes,  now 
there  are  no  more  stock  companies.  It  couldn't 
have  been  very  'lazy'  in  the  old  days  when  one  had 
to  master  three  or  four  parts  a  week.  Those  were 
the  times  to  make  actresses — when  one  sat  up  all 
night  studying  with  a  wet  towel  round  one's  head ! 
when  one  was  Lady  Macbeth  on  Monday,  and  Lady 
Gay  Spanker  on  Tuesday.  Ah,  heavenly  times! 
Yes,  to  people  who  don't  work  at  home  it  is  the 
laziest  life  now,  I  suppose — during  an  engagement! 
— they're  fairly  busy  when  they're  'resting.'  What 
are  you  going  to  try  for  to-morrow?" 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  see  Townsend,"  he  said. 
"You  know  they  are  producing  a  piece  of  his  at  the 
West  Central.  I  once  went  out  in  one  of  his  things; 
and  he  rehearsed  the  Company.  He  was  kind 
enough  to  think  me  good." 

"Will  he  remember  you?" 

"An  author  never  remembers  anything  except  his 
grudge  against  the  critic  who  gave  him  a  bad  notice, 
but  I  shall  remind  him  who  I  am.  I  hear  they  have 
only  engaged  the  Principals  so  far,  and  the  first  call 


62  THE   ACTOR-MANAGEK 

is  for  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow.  I  mean  to  waylay 
him  as  he  goes  in." 

To  waylay  a  man  as  he  goes  in;  to  scheme  for  an 
introduction  to  another  who  doesn't  want  to  know 
you;  to  submit  to  rudeness,  and  disguise  privation 
under  well-cut  clothes;  to  smile  in  the  Strand,  and 
break  your  heart  in  private,  are  the  essential  pre- 
liminaries to  success  on  the  stage,  unless  you  have 
money,  or  your  father  was  a  favorite  actor. 

Miss  King  was  rehearsing  in  a  large  room  over  a 
public-house  in  Covent  Garden,  and  after  accom- 
panying her  there  next  day,  Oliphant  proceeded  to 
his  destination.  The  stage-door  of  the  West  Central 
was  in  a  narrow  court  not  more  than  five  minutes 
distant,  and  he  reached  it  too  early.  Rather  than 
incur  the  risk  of  missing  the  dramatist,  though,  he 
remained;  and  casting  eager  glances  in  the  direction 
in  which  the  man  must  come,  endeavored  to  per- 
suade himself  that  he  was  hopeful.  To  be  hopeful 
is  to  wear  a  cheerful  expression,  and  a  cheerful  ex- 
pression is  valuable  to  the  applicant  for  favors. 

When  Mr.  Townsend  appeared  he  was  walking  at 
a  swift  pace.  He  passed  Oliphant  without  any  sign 
of  recognition,  and,  hastening  after  him,  the  young 
man  said  diffidently: 

"Mr.  Townsend!" 

"Eh?    Yes;  what  is  it?" 

"You  don't  remember  me;  my  name's  Royce  Oli- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  63 

phant;  I  played  'Albert  Kenyon'  in  Don  Quixote  of 
Belgravia — the  Number  1  Company." 

"Oh  y-e-s,  yes.     How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Oliphant?" 

uIs  there  any  part  open  in  this?  I  should  be  im- 
mensely glad  to  get  a  chance  at  the  West  Central." 

"I'm  afraid  the  cast  is  complete — er — you  might 
drop  me  a  reminder  when  the  tour  starts.  I'm  afraid 
there's  nothing  open  in  the  production." 

"Not  a  small  part?  To  come  to  town  I'd  take 
twenty  lines." 

The  author  mused. 

"Well,  there's  a — I  don't  know ;  I'll  see  !  It's  just 
possible  that  I  can  offer  you  something.  You  might 
wait  a  second,  will  you?" 

He  plunged  into  the  gloomy  entrance,  and  clat- 
tered down  the  stairs;  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
went  by. 

When  he  emerged  he  was  with  the  stage-manager. 
Oliphant's  momentary  expectation,  however,  faded 
into  blankness  as  he  saw  that  Mr.  Townsend  had 
forgotten  all  about  him.     He  stopped  him  again: 

"Mr.  Townsend!" 

"Eh?  Oh  yes,  yes.  I  have  to  go  round  to  the 
front  with  Mr.  Bensusan  now.  I'll  see  you 
when  I  come  back.  Don't  go  away;  I  shan't  be  ten 
minutes." 

The  actor  made  a  cigarette,  and  stood  before  the 
door  like  a  sentinel.  An  hour  passed.  He  would 
have  liked  to  sit  down,  but  there  was  nowhere  to 


64  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

sit.  Two  hours  passed — two  hours  and  a  half;  still 
Mr.  Townsend  didn't  return.  In  desperation  at 
last  Oliphant  went  in  search  of  him.  At  the  box- 
office  it  was  believed  that  he  would  be  found  at  lunch 
in  the  restaurant  across  the  road;  and  he  was  dis- 
covered eating  oysters.  He  looked  up  as  Oliphant 
approached  him. 

"Oh — oh,  Mr.  Oliphant!  yes,  of  course!  I  men- 
tioned the  matter  to  Mr.  Bensusan;  but  there  are 
wheels  within  wheels,  you  know,  my  boy! — I  can't 
work  it.     I'm  sorry." 

"It  can't  be  helped,"  said  Oliphant.  "Thanks  for 
doing  what  you  could." 

He  turned  away,  and  paused  among  the  turmoil 
of  the  Strand,  considering  what  to  try  for  next.  The 
odor  of  the  restaurant  lurked  in  his  nostrils  enti- 
cingly, and  a  passing  omnibus  threw  a  clot  of  mud 
in  his  face. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  few  days  later  Miss  King  sailed  for  the  Cape. 
She  had  contrived  to  discharge  her  debt  to  Mrs. 
Tubbs — probably  by  the  sacrifice  of  something  from 
her  trunk:  Oliphant  did  not  hear  how  the  payment 
was  accomplished — and  the  widow  deplored  her  de- 
parture on  every  occasion  that  she  appeared  with  the 
remaining  lodger's  tea  and  toast. 

Oliphant  missed  the  girl  too — more  than  he  would 
have  believed  was  possible  considering  how  brief  a 
time  she  had  lived  here.  He  felt  lonelier  than  ever 
now  when  he  returned  to  the  empty  drawing-room 
after  tramping  the  pavements  in  vain.  It  is  one  of 
the  painful  features  of  the  theatrical  life  that  the 
friends  of  to-day  are  so  often  strangers  to-morrow; 
every  tour  sees  intimacies  formed  among  people 
who,  after  the  Company  is  disbanded,  may  not  en- 
counter one  another  again  for  years.  But  Miss  King 
had  been  met  in  an  unusual  way,  and  in  this  case  his 
own  environment  remained  the  same.  Its  sameness 
emphasized  her  absence,  and  lent  a  pathos  to  it. 

It  was  about  a  week  after  their  farewell  that 
something  unlooked  for  happened — something  that 
promised  to  alter  the  whole  complexion  of  his  affairs. 

6s 


66  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

A  letter  lay  on  his  hot-water  can  one  morning,  and 
a  letter  was  sufficiently  rare  for  him  to  open 
it  with  eagerness.  When  he  had  read  it  his 
eyes  sparkled,  and  the  attic  looked  lovelier.  Lon- 
don had  a  heart  after  all,  and  he  could  hear  it  beat- 
ing. London  was  human !  The  agent  with  whom 
he  had  left  The  Impostor  wrote  that  he  could  place 
it  for  immediate  production  at  a  West  End  house. 
The  percentage  offered  was  very  fair  in  view  of  the 
author's  obscurity;  and  a  hundred  pounds,  on  ac- 
count of  fees,  would  be  paid  when  the  contract  was 
signed.  Oliphant  was  asked  to  reply  at  once,  stating 
whether  he  was  prepared  to  accept  the  terms.  He 
stood  still  and  laughed. 

Yes,  he  was  prepared!  His  hand  shook  as  he 
dressed.  To  answer  by  post  was  impossible.  That 
the  drama  had  been  accepted  three  times  already, 
and  that  three  contracts  for  it  had  been  broken,  did 
not  damp  his  exhilaration,  for  the  offer  of  money 
on  account  showed  that  business  was  meant,  and  be- 
sides, the  "production"  was  to  be  "immediate."  For 
once  he  left  Burton  Crescent  buoyantly.  Like  the 
attic,  the  familiar  windows  of  Marchmont  Street 
had  an  unfamiliar  air.  The  confectioner's  which 
had  recently  appeared  to  mock  him  with  its  display 
of  unattainable  short-breads  decorated  with  New 
Year's  greetings  in  citron  and  sugar-plums — the 
little  toy-shop,  lower  down,  where  he  bought  his 
papers — the  oranges  and  tomatoes,  and  apples  and 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  67 

chestnuts,  on  a  stall  under  the  tarpaulin-— everything 
smiled  to  him  to-day;  he  contemplated  the  land- 
marks with  affection.  Even  the  Strand — though  he 
could  never  love  the  Strand — he  was  able,  at  least, 
to  forgive.  He  remembered  the  sufferings  it  had  in- 
flicted without  resentment.  He  had  got  the  better 
of  the  Strand  at  last! 

What  a  good  fellow  was  the  agent !  though  he  had 
never  struck  him  in  that  light  before.  How  difficult, 
as  the  brilliant  details  were  imparted,  to  disguise 
that  the  thing  appeared  incredible,  something  too 
marvellous  to  be  true.  "Clement"  was  to  be  played 
by  Herbert  Rayne,  who  hoped  to  obtain  a  lease  of 
the  Dominion.  Herbert  Rayne  would  be  excellent  as 
"Clement" !  And  he  had  a  reputation — the  part  of 
the  hero  was  in  first-rate  hands !  Would  Oliphant 
meet  him  here  on  the  morrow  at,  say,  one  o'clock? 
Yes,  he  would  not  fail;  it  was  an  appointment.  His 
blood  bubbled  in  his  veins  as  he  proposed  a  drink. 
There  was  a  flicker  of  feeble  sunlight  on  the  puddles 
when  they  stood  outside,  and  he  saw  a  blaze  that 
dazzled  him. 

How  charming  was  Herbert  Rayne  when  the  in- 
terview took  place  and  signatures  were  written! 
How  novel  it  was  to  be  deferred  to  by  a  popular 
actor,  with  astrakhan  on  his  overcoat,  and  to  discuss 
with  him  the  qualifications  of  other  popular  actors! 
What  did  the  author  think  of  Miss  Proctor  for 
"Lady  Maud"  ?    The  author,  astonished  at  his  bold- 


68  THE   'ACTOR-MANAGER 

ness,  confessed  that  he  had  always  thought  Miss 
Proctor  lacked  sympathy.  Rayne  agreed  with  him — 
she  did.  And  she  asked  thirty  pounds  a  week,  which 
was  absurd !  He  suggested  somebody  else,  and  they 
walked  down  the  Strand  together  arm  in  arm.  And 
they  were  seen  by  two  persons  to  whom  Oliphant 
was  known !  He  was  human,  and  the  fact  gratified 
him. 

"You're  an  actor  yourself,  Mr.  Oliphant,  eh?" 
said  Rayne.     "How  about  playing  in  the  piece  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  thanks,"  laughed  the  young 
man;  "I  shall  be  nervous  enough  as  it  is!" 

"It  would  be  'good  business' — author's  fees  and 
a  salary  too!  But,  of  course,  you're  right;  it'd  be  a 
mistake.  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  get  the  Do- 
minion— I  shall  know  this  week.  I've  made  them 
a  fair  offer.  The  rent  they  ask  is  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  but  that's  all  pickles!" 

No  longer  compelled  to  husband  the  few  sov- 
ereigns that  remained  from  the  loan  on  his  watch 
and  chain,  Oliphant  proposed  lunch,  and  Rayne  did 
not  decline  the  invitation.  On  the  contrary,  he  de- 
clared that  there  was  only  one  place  to  lunch  at,  and 
that  was  Dolibo's. 

"It's  the  best  cooking  in  London,  /  say;  and  then 
it  saves  time — as  everybody  goes  there,  one  meets 
all  the  people  one  has  to  see.  I  must  introduce  you 
to  Ravioli." 

So   they  jumped   into   a   hansom,   and  drove   to 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  69 

Dolibo's;  and  Oliphant  was  duly  introduced  to 
ravioli,  which  he  had  presumed  was  a  composer,  but 
which  turned  out  to  be  a  mess  that  tasted  of  nothing 
but  the  tomatoes.  Nevertheless  it  was  a  delightful 
day!  And  the  fact  that  the  agent,  after  deducting 
the  amount  of  the  commission,  had  given  him  a 
crossed  cheque,  was  the  only  alloy  to  his  satisfaction. 

Rayne's  confidence  was  justified  and  the  Dominion 
was  secured.  There  were  various  hopes  that  were 
not  fulfilled — either  the  salaries  asked  were  prohib- 
itive, or  it  was  found  that  the  artists  would  not  be 
disengaged  soon  enough  to  assist  in  the  production. 
The  "Lady  Maud"  on  whom  Oliphant  had  set  his 
heart  was  attacked  by  pleurisy  three  days  before 
the  date  of  the  first  rehearsal,  and  Blanche  Ellerton 
was  chosen  in  her  place,  whom  he  had  never  seen, 
and  who  was  by  comparison  unknown.  The  morn- 
ing arrived,  however,  when  the  Company  was  as- 
sembled at  the  theatre  to  hear  Mr.  Royce  Oliphant 
read  his  play. 

He  arrived  early.  It  was  at  this  period  his  con- 
stant endeavor  to  avoid  all  the  faults  and  affectations 
that  he  had  execrated  in  others.  He  had  rendered 
himself  rather  a  nuisance  to  Rayne  by  the  earnest- 
ness of  his  attempts  to  obtain  small  parts  for  his 
acquaintances,  who,  from  the  moment  the  earliest 
announcement  was  made,  besieged  him  with  written 
and  verbal  reminders  of  their  existence.  That  he 
had  not  succeeded  in  a  single  instance  was  due  to 


70  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

circumstances  which  he  could  not  help,  but  the  fail- 
ure troubled  him,  and  he  had  felt  that  his  explana- 
tions must  sound  as  hollow  to  his  former  colleagues 
as  those  of  his  present  associates  had  hitherto  ap- 
peared to  himself.     He  arrived  early. 

The  artists  were  before  him,  though.  A  semi- 
circle of  chairs  had  been  formed  on  the  stage,  as  if 
in  readiness  for  a  minstrel  entertainment;  and  facing 
it,  under  the  T-piece,  was  the  one  reserved  for  him- 
self. Mr.  Rayne  made  several  remarks  to  him, 
which  he  believed  he  answered:  he  had  the  vaguest 
idea  of  their  tenor.  He  noted  a  pretty,  fair  girl, 
who  wore  a  feather  boa,  lifting  attentive  eyes  to 
him,  and  hoped  she  could  act.  He  saw  the  manu- 
script and  a  glass  of  water  on  the  prompt-table,  and 
shivered  as  the  patient  at  the  dentist's  shivers  at  the 
sight  of  the  forceps.  He  approached  the  prompt- 
table — and  put  his  umbrella  on  it!  He  had  touched 
the  apex. 

"Good  morning,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  that  he  didn't  recognize. 

The  recollection  assailed  him  that  more  than  one 
of  these  people  to  whom  he  was  about  to  read  bore 
names  that  were  household  words  among  playgoers, 
and  he  turned  suddenly  giddy.  He  wished  that 
Rayne  had  not  known  he  was  an  actor,  for  he  was 
certain  he  should  read  like  an  amateur  of  the  worst 
kind.     He  fumbled  with  the  leaves  of  the  manu- 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  7  I 

script,    and    cleared    his    throat,    and    sipped    the 
water. 

"The  Impostor"  he  began. 

He  dashed  into  the  stage-directions,  which  gave 
him  a  moment  to  accustom  himself  to  the  situation; 
and  he  gabbled  them  vilely.  It  seemed  to  him  five 
minutes — in  reality  it  was  less  than  five  seconds — 
before  he  had  his  voice  under  control  at  all.  His 
predominant  and  paralyzing  thought  was  that  every- 
body would  be  bored  to  death  hours  before  he  had 
finished. 

To  read  a  play  well  is  an  achievement  of  which 
very  few  are  capable;  for  to  read  a  play  well  means 
to  render  perhaps  fifteen  parts,  and  the  more  thor- 
oughly one  character  may  be  realized,  the  more  dif- 
ficult it  becomes  to  change  instantaneously  to  the 
next.  When  the  reader  is  the  author  also,  sensitive 
to  each  movement  of  every  member  of  his  audience, 
strained  to  sickness  with  the  double  responsibility, 
the  ordeal  is  beyond  description.  It  was  twelve 
o'clock  when  Oliphant  sat  down;  it  was  four  when, 
after  three  brief  intervals,  he  closed  the  covers  of 
the  last  Act.  During  two  hours  he  knew  that  he 
had  done  the  best  of  which  he  was  capable.  He 
looked  up  at  the  girl  with  the  feather  boa,  and  he 
saw  that  to  her  thinking,  at  all  events,  The  Impostor 
spelt  success. 

There  was  a  hum  of  congratulation.  Everybody 
had  a  smile;  the  girl  exclaimed  feelingly,  "Oh,  it's 


72  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

beautiful !"  and  an  elderly  woman,  who,  Oliphant 
assumed,  was  cast  for  "Lady  Plynlimmon,"  said 
with  quiet  authority,  "The  play  is  sure — oh,  sure !" 
at  which  Rayne  looked  much  pleased. 

Then  there  were  introductions,  and  more  flatter- 
ing comments  made;  and  at  last,  not  quite  certain 
whether  he  was  awake  or  in  a  dream,  Oliphant 
escaped  to  gulp  the  air,  after  hearing  that  everyone 
was  expected  at  twelve  again  the  following  morning. 

It  might  be  imagined  that  the  rehearsals  would 
prove  no  novelty  to  him,  but  they  were  astoundingly 
new.  Familiar  things  were  all  at  once  presented  to 
him  in  a  fresh  light — just  as  light  had  been  shed 
already  on  Mr.  Townsend's  behavior  at  the  West 
Central.  A  rehearsal  here  was  as  different  from  the 
rehearsals  to  which  he  was  used — as  different  from 
a  rehearsal  at  the  Queen's,  for  example — as  the 
captain's  impression  of  the  voyage  is  from  a  pas- 
senger's. Hitherto  his  sole  anxiety  had  been  his 
own  performance — now  he  was  anxious  about  every- 
one's; and,  too  diffident  to  pull  up  the  artists  publicly 
in  order  to  obtain  the  inflections  he  desired,  his  brain 
swam  in  trying  to  remember  the  thousand-and-one 
suggestions  he  wanted  to  make  to  them  in  private. 
He  was  harassed  day  and  night  by  the  remembrance 
of  warnings  about  something  which  somebody  had 
felt  it  "only  right"  to  utter.  He  was  drawn  aside 
by  "Lady  Plynlimmon"  to  be  cautioned  that  the 
stage-management  was  ruining  her  most  important 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  73 

scene ;  Voysey,  the  stage-manager,  informed  him  that 
his  refusal  to  have  incidental  music  was  going  to 
"damn  the  show";  and  Rayne  came  down  to  the 
theatre  one  morning  with  the  opinion  that  the  "hero 
was  an  unmitigated  blackguard."  Even  when  the 
incidental  music  was  conceded,  it  was  not  the  end  of 
the  matter.  Oliphant  derived  his  principal  compen- 
sation from  watching  the  rehearsals  of  the  girl  with 
the  feather  boa,  who  had  proved  to  be  Blanche  El- 
lerton.  Though  she  was  not  more  than  three  or 
four  and  twenty,  her  performance  promised  to  be 
admirable — in  fact,  she  was  an  ideal  "Maud."  Her 
girlishness  was  so  "natural,"  her  pathos  was  so  un- 
forced, that  she  delighted  him.  When,  therefore, 
she  turned  to  him  one  day  in  excitement  and  despair, 
he  was  ready  to  take  her  side  before  he  had  heard 
what  her  grievance  was. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Oliphant,"  she  exclaimed,  "please, 
please  tell  Mr.  Voysey  that  that  awful  number  they 
play  through  my  soliloquy  won't  do !  It  kills  it.  I 
simply  can't  act  if  they  play  it.  The  situation  wants 
something  plaintive,  and  Mr.  Van  Putten  has  writ- 
ten a  jig!" 

Oliphant  hadn't  remarked  the  incongruity,  and 
said  so. 

"Well,  ask  him  to  let  you  hear  it.  Will  you? 
Do!" 

"Certainly  I  will,"   he  answered;   "I'll  ask  him 


now." 


74  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

The  conductor  was  sitting  by  the  piano  at  the  op- 
posite corner  of  the  stage,  and  Oliphant  went  over 
to  him. 

"Mr.  Van  Putten,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you'd  let  me 
hear  one  of  the  numbers  youVe  written.  Do  you 
mind?" 

"Vich  number?"   inquired  the  conductor  coldly. 

Miss  Ellerton  joined  them.  "Number  three,"  she 
said. 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  Mr.  Van  Putten;  "dee  lady  find 
zomeding  wrong  vid  it,  yes?  Ha,  ha!  Zare,  I 
'ave  gomposed  de  music  for  all  dee  brincipal  deatres 
in  London;  but  dee  Gombany  knows  best,  ain't  it? 
Zo,  I  villblay  it!" 

He  did.  In  describing  it  as  a  "jig"  the  actress 
had  exaggerated,  but  not  more  wildly  than  was  par- 
donable in  the  artistic  temperament. 

"It's  very  fine,"  said  Oliphant;  "yes,  thank  you. 
Still,  I  fancy  that  for  the  situation  something  a  little 
slower  would  be  better;  it  doesn't  quite  fit  the  lines. 
Perhaps  you've  noticed  it  yourself?" 

"What  the  matter?"  demanded  Mr.  Voysey. 

"Dee  audor  and  dee  lady  object  to  de  music." 

Without  any  premonitory  symptoms  Mr.  Voysey 
exploded.  The  conductor  posed  resignedly,  with  the 
offending  number  drooping  from  his  hand.  The  re- 
hearsal was  stopped,  and  a  heated  argument  con- 
tinued for  five  minutes.  Rayne  agreed  with  every- 
body all  at  once. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  75 

"It's  Miss  Ellerton's  scene/'  repeated  Oliphant, 
"and  if  she  doesn't  'feel'  the  number  it  ought  to  be 
changed.  We  can't  sacrifice  the  actress  to  the  inci- 
dental music!" 

"Oh,  that's  enough,  Mr.  Oliphant!"  cried  the 
stage-manager.  "All  right,  all  right,  all  right !  I've 
had  thirty-five  years'  experience  in  the  profession, 
but  I'm  always  ready  to  learn.  Produce  the  piece 
your  way !  I  may  as  well  go  home  as  I  don't  know 
my  business." 

However,  he  picked  up  the  manuscript  again  at 
the  same  moment.  Miss  Ellerton  had  gained  her 
point,  and  the  rehearsal  was  resumed. 

"You  got  me  into  nice  trouble,"  Oliphant  said  to 
her  by  and  by. 

"Oh,  it  was  so  good  of  you,"  she  answered  radi- 
antly. "But  wasn't  it  hideous?  It  set  one's  teeth  on 
edge!" 

"It  was  a  trifle  weird,"  he  agreed. 

"You  don't  know  how  grateful  I  am !  I  couldn't, 
I  simply  couldn't  have  acted  to  that  ghastly  noise.  .  .  . 
Have  you  seen  the  boy  anywhere  lately?" 

"Do  you  want  anything?" 

"I  want  him  to  fetch  me  a  bun.  I'm  famished, 
and  we  shan't  get  away  till  five  if  we're  going 
through  the  last  Act." 

"Let  me  go  for  you.     What  shall  I  bring?" 

"Will  you?  Oh,  just  a  bun,  please;  that's  all. 
Thanks  awfully !" 


y6  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

So  he  brought  a  box  of  cakes  from  a  neighboring 
confectioner's,  and  she  handed  it  round  to  the  other 
women,  and  then  came  back  to  offer  it  again  to  him. 
She  stood  beside  him  in  the  wings,  eating  chocolate 
eclairs,  and  discussing  the  frocks  she  was  to  wear  in 
the  part.  She  was  pretty  enough  to  be  attractive, 
even  while  she  ate  a  chocolate  eclair. 


CHAPTER  VI 

When  the  Wednesday  dawned  for  which  the 
dress-rehearsal  was  fixed,  Oiiphant  rose  in  a  state 
of  tension  which  he  knew  was  to  continue  for  thirty- 
six  hours — until  the  curtain  fell  the  following  night 
on  the  production.  His  remembrance  of  these 
thirty-six  hours  was  always  vague.  A  salient  feature 
was  Mr.  Voysey's  silk  hat  at  the  back  of  his  head, 
as  he  stood,  on  Wednesday  morning,  doing  nothing 
anxiously  in  the  centre  of  "Lady  Plynlimmon's"  hall; 
the  brilliantly-lighted  scene,  in  which  he  was  the 
solitary  figure,  and  the  gloom  of  the  auditorium 
formed  a  striking  contrast.  There  was  a  sprinkling 
of  curious  strangers  in  the  stalls.  And  when  the 
rehearsal  began  at  last,  everything  went  wrong 
— everything  except  the  performance  of  Miss  Eller- 
ton.  Even  Rayne  was  not  so  good  as  the  author 
had  expected  him  to  be;  and  others  did  not  know 
their  parts;  and  terrible  omissions  were  discovered, 
which  could  never  be  remedied  in  time.  At  five 
o'clock,  when  Oiiphant  went  back  to  Burton  Cres- 
cent, he  was  bowed  with  despondence. 

Thursday  drew  towards  dusk  tardily.     He  had 
strolled  about  the  streets  till  he  was  tired,  and,  still 

77 


78  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

too  restless  to  sit  down,  he  now  paced  the  drawing- 
room,  staring  with  strained  eyes  at  the  darkening 
enclosure  beyond  the  windows.  He  thought  that  he 
wanted  somebody — anybody — to  talk  to;  but  when 
Mrs.  Tubbs  brought  in  the  inevitable  tea  and  toast, 
her  chatter  drove  him  to  the  verge  of  frenzy. 

"I  suppose  you  can't  help  thinking  about  it,  Mr. 
Elephant,"  she  said,  "and  being  a  bit  worried  like? 
Well,  you're  fine  and  large  on  the  bills,  that  you  are ! 
Mrs.  Johnson  was  saying  only  yesterday — you've 
heard  me  speak  o'  Mrs.  Johnson? — the  lady  as  does 
your  washing — she  was  saying  only  yesterday  she 
never  see  a  strikinger  bill  in  her  life;  and  she's  what 
you  may  call  a  reg'lar  playgoer,  mind  yer!  Is  it 
a  laughable  piece,  Mr.  Elephant?" 

"No,"  he  said  huskily;  "it  isn't  meant  to  be  comic. 
I  don't  think  I  want  any  tea,  thank  you." 

"Lor,  you  must  eat  a  bit — whatever  are  you  talk- 
ing about!  I  suppose  if  it  takes,  you'll  be  making 
a  lot  o'  money,  won't  you?  I  do  wonder  you  ain't 
acting  in  it  yourself — seems  so  strange !  Mrs.  John- 
son was  asking  me  which  of  the  parts  you  took,  and 
when  I  said  you  hadn't  got  nothin'  to  do  with  it,  she 
was  that  surprised!  Well,  me  and  her'll  both  be 
there,  anyhow;  I  give  her  a  ticket,  and  we  mean  to 
clap  like  one  o'clock,  /  can  tell  yer!" 

"For  heaven's  sake,"  he  exclaimed  agitatedly, 
"don't  go  clapping  all  by  yourselves !     Don't,  I  beg 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  79 

you  I"  The  toast  choked  him,  and  it  was  necessary 
to  obtain  a  respite.     "I'll  go  and  dress,"  he  declared. 

"Better  'ad,"  said  Mrs.  Tubbs;  "Mrs.  Johnson 
'ave  took  especial  pains  with  your  shirt — you'll  find 
it  at  the  top  of  the  parcel.  /  know  the  sinking  you've 
got,  Mr.  Elephant — 'aving  'ad  it  myself!  Never 
shall  I  forget  the  night  as  'er  as  is  gone  left  this  very 
'ouse  to  make  her  fust  appearance  before  the  public, 
with  me  and  'er  uncle  a-followin'  of  her,  a  mask  o' 
perspiration  in  the  'bus !  And  the  talent  o'  that  gal 
was  astonishin',  though  little  more  than  showing  of 
'erself  off  'ad  she  got  to  do.  And  if  it  'adn't  been 
that  Mr.  Tubbs  was  the  tool  of  Mr.  Billing,  it's  at 
the  Al'ambra  or  what  not  she'd  'ave " 

The  quiet  and  coolness  of  the  bedroom  was  re- 
freshing. By  maddening  degrees  another  hour  crept 
by.  Presently  it  wasn't  ridiculous  to  consider  start- 
ing for  the  theatre.  He  had  intended  to  take  a 
hansom,  as  befitting  the  occasion,  but  suddenly  he 
preferred  to  walk.  He  did  not  mean  to  go  behind 
the  scenes  until  after  the  performance;  to  show  him- 
self earlier  would  only  be  to  increase  the  nervous- 
ness of  the  Company.  In  the  Strand  he  had  a  liqueur 
of  brandy,  and  bought  a  cigar,  and  consulted  his 
watch — which  he  had  taken  out  of  pawn — a  dozen 
times. 

The  crowd  outside  the  pit  and  gallery  was  large 
— he  wondered  with  a  pang  how  many  "orders"  it 
represented.    The  people  surged  forward  as  he  spec- 


80  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

ulated  on  the  point,  and  a  flood  of  light  was  cast 
upon  the  pavement  from  the  centre  doors,  which 
opened  noisily  and  displayed  the  lobby.  The  com- 
missionaire who  undid  them  was  very  tall  and  fat, 
and  his  buttons  shone;  Oliphant  noticed  that.  The 
gleam  of  the  acting-manager's  shirt-front,  and  the 
blue  shawl  over  the  head  of  an  early  arrival  in  a 
four-wheel  cab,  also  impressed  him,  like  the  artificial 
redness  of  a  bank  of  roses  at  the  foot  of  a  gilt  look- 
ing-glass when  he  entered.  There  was  a  telegram 
for  him  in  the  box-office,  and  it  slipped  from  his 
fingers  three  times  before  he  mastered  it.  It  ran: 
'Tm  drinking  your  health.  Heartiest  wishes  for  a 
thundering  success  to-night — Otho."  It  was  sent 
from  Paris.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  handed  it 
to  the  programme-girl  instead  of  his  ticket,  and  tried 
to  smile  when  the  mistake  was  pointed  out;  his  lips 
felt  very  stiff. 

He  sat  in  the  dress-circle,  and  listened  to  the  clat- 
ter of  feet  overhead,  as  the  gallery-patrons  stumbled 
down  the  wooden  steps.  After  an  eternity,  when 
the  orchestra  appeared,  and  the  first  preliminary 
scrape  of  a  fiddle  wrung  his  heart,  he  understood  the 
sickness  of  the  soul  which  so  often  prevents  a  dram- 
atist attending  the  production  of  his  play.  Hitherto 
he  had  ridiculed  it;  now  he  understood.  Momen- 
tarily he  entertained  the  idea  of  going  away,  but  a 
feeling  of  physical  weakness,  as  much  as  curiosity, 
held  him  chained. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  8  I 

The  stalls  were  rapidly  filling,  and  occasionally 
there  was  the  sharp  rattle  of  rings,  as  an  attendant 
preceded  a  party  into  a  private-box.  Mr.  Van  Put- 
ten  emerged;  he  settled  his  coat-tails.  He  tapped 
with  the  baton,  and  collected  eyes.  The  orchestra 
emitted  a  melancholy  wail.  It  grew  louder;  it  ac- 
quired a  tune;  it  culminated  in  a  crash.  The  author 
gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair — and  the  curtain  rose. 

The  scene  glowed  before  him  as  it  had  done  yes- 
terday; the  women  were  there — and  they  spoke;  so 
much  he  knew.  Whether  they  spoke  the  lines  well, 
or  whether  they  spoke  the  words  that  he  had  writ- 
ten, he  did  not  know  in  the  least.  He  thought  that 
if  the  actresses'  nervousness  had  equalled  his  own 
they  would  have  been  tongue-tied;  but  they  had — 
as  he  had  always  had  till  now — the  stimulus  of  the 
footlights.  .  .  .  Gradually  his  mind  became 
acuter;  he  waited  for  an  inflection,  and  looked  for 
the  next  ''entrance."  It  was  "Maud's."  God!  was 
Maud  late? 

"  'Maud  is  here,  mother;  and  very  impatient  for 
tea'!" 

Ah!  she  was  on  the  staircase — she  came  down  it 
slowly,  her  finger-tips  trailing  the  balustrade.  How 
graceful  she  was !  How  charming  a  figure,  as  she 
smiled  across  the  table !  .  .  .  There  was  a  ripple 
of  laughter  as  "Lady  Plynlimmon"  let  fall  an  epi- 
gram with  an  air  of  unconsciousness  that  gave  it 
twice  its  point.     .     .     .     Rayne — looking  very  hand- 


82  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

some  in  "pink" — -was  welcomed  enthusiastically.  .  .  . 
To  find  that  "Sir  Clement"  wasn't  Sir  Clement  at 
all  startled  the  audience  as  it  was  meant  to  do,  and 
an  audible  stir  ran  through  the  theatre.  The  author's 
agitation  had  a  throb  of  enjoyment  in  it  now;  yes- 
terday's blunders  were  avoided — the  piece  was  going 
without  a  hitch ! 

He  did  not  go  to  smoke  in  the  interval;  nor  in  the 
next.  He  sat  longing  to  grip  Rayne  and  everybody 
else  by  the  hand.  He  had  misjudged  Rayne !  The 
whole  company  was  doing  valiant  work,  and  the  ap- 
plause had  been  of  the  warmest  description. 

The  Act-drop  went  up  for  the  third  time,  and 
"Maud"  and  the  man  who  called  himself  Sir  Clement 
Thurloe  were  "discovered"  on  the  anniversary  of 
their  wedding-day.  Rayne  and  Miss  Ellerton  were 
both  excellent  here.  His  hunger  for  the  love  of  the 
wife  whom  he  had  bought  by  his  fraud,  and  her  own 
awakening  tenderness,  were  depicted  admirably. 
Soon  her  dislike  of  "Mrs.  Vaughan" — the  man's 
embarrassment  when  questioned — fanned  a  mistaken 
fear  to  jealousy.  The  girl's  voice  as  she  turned  to 
"Lady  Plynlimmon"  with  the  cry  of  "Mother !  You 
made  me  marry  him — tell  me  if  it's  true!"  brought 
Oliphant's  heart  into  his  throat.  She  was  displaying 
an  intensity  that  astonished  even  him.  For  the  end 
of  the  Act — the  whirlwind  of  despair — he  relied  on 
Rayne;  but  another  scene  had  to  come  first:  the 
"Scene  of  the  Two  Women,"  when  "Maud"  de- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  83 

clined  to  receive  "Mrs.  Vaughan,"  and  the  adven- 
turess, in  retaliation,  flung  the  truth  in  her  hostess's 
face  and  told  her  that  she  was  the  wife  of  an 
impostor.  The  scene  came  which  was  to  be  made 
or  marred  by  Miss  Blanche  Ellerton. 

And  now  she  held  the  house;  and  Oliphant  wor- 
shipped her.  The  girl  who  had  eaten  chocolate 
eclairs,  and  talked  theatrical  slang  in  the  wings,  bore 
herself  like  a  queen.  Every  word  she  uttered,  every 
quiver  of  the  proudly-set  lips,  struck  a  chord  in  his 
own  being.  His  life  seemed  a  part  of  her — to  flutter 
with  her  breath.  The  Act — the  Play — ended  some- 
how; he  thought  of  no  one  but  her. 

He  fancied  there  was  a  cry  of  "Author"  when  he 
made  his  way  "behind"  after  the  curtain  fell.  The 
artists  were  all  on  the  stage — all  with  their  nerves 
strung  high;  the  eyes  that  some  of  the  women  turned 
to  him  were  wet  as  he  stammered  his  thanks.  He 
loved  everybody;  the  members  of  the  Company  were 
his  brothers  and  sisters !  Rayne  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  sounded  imperative — Oliphant  didn't 
understand  about  what.  All  he  realized  vividly  was 
that  Blanche  Ellerton  was  standing  among  the  group, 
waiting  for  him  to  reach  her.  He  took  both  her 
hands  and  could  have  fallen  at  her  feet. 

"Oh,  God  bless  you !"  he  gasped. 

"Was  I  what  you  meant?" 

"You  were  great — what  can  I  say? — you  were 
great!" 


84  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"For  heaven's  sake,  man,  come  I"  Rayne  wrenched 
him  round;  "they  want  the  author — take  your  'call' !" 

He  was  dragged  before  the  audience,  and  made 
his  bow. 

She  was  there  when  he  came  off — not  queenly  any 
longer,  but  a  girl  with  paint  on  her  face,  and  a  tear 
trickling  down  it.  "Good  night,"  she  said;  "I  think 
it's  a  success?" 

"Thanks  to  you"  he  muttered.  He  caught  her 
hands  to  his  mouth,  and  kissed  them  violently. 
"There  are  no  words  to  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am 
— no  words  !    Good  night,  Miss  Ellerton." 

It  occurred  to  him  afterwards  that  a  diplomatist 
would  have  bestowed  his  superlative  benediction  on 
the  Manager;  but  he  didn't  care! 


CHAPTER  VII 

When  Mrs.  Tubbs  came  into  his  room  with  the 
bundle  of  newspapers  that  he  had  ordered  over- 
night, Oliphant  sat  up  in  bed  and  grabbed  them; 
and  the  more  he  read  the  blanker  grew  his  dismay. 
Not  one  of  the  press  opinions  of  The  Impostor  was 
wholly  favorable,  and  several  were  decidedly  the 
reverse.  The  acting  was  praised,  especially  Miss 
Ellerton's — the  Telegraph  was  reminded  of  Aimee 
Desclee — but  most  of  the  dramatic  critics  described 
the  piece  itself  as  a  rechauffe  of  The  Lady  of  Lyons ; 
and  after  breakfast,  when  the  evening  journals  were 
published,  one  of  the  notices  was  headed,  "Claude 
Melnotte  in  a  Chimney-pot  Hat!" 

The  author  walked  down  to  the  Dominion  in  the 
morning,  because  he  felt  that  it  would  be  cowardly 
to  stay  away;  and  he  had  a  brief,  dejected  chat  with 
Rayne  in  the  office.  To  go  to  the  theatre  at  night, 
however,  and  see  the  Company  flat,  and  the  house 
three-parts  empty,  was  beyond  him.  He  wondered 
if  Miss  Ellerton  was  sympathizing  with  him  in  his 
failure.  She  could  afford  to  do  so;  The  Impostor 
had  at  any  rate  been  a  triumph  for  her.  He  would 
go  to-morrow!     He   fancied  what  she  would  say 

85 


86  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

and  what  he  would  answer,  and  foresaw  her  reply 
to  that.  He  found  that  he  was  looking  forward  to 
their  conversation  very  eagerly. 

But  it  wasn't  quite  so  charming  as  he  had  expected. 
She  said  that  "the  bad  notices  of  the  piece  were  an 
awful  shame,"  but  he  could  not  avoid  perceiving  that 
her  mind  was  chiefly  occupied  by  the  good  criticisms 
of  herself.  The  conversation  approached  his  imagi- 
nary picture  more  closely  when  he  congratulated 
her  on  her  success;  then  she  was  again  animated. 
He  was  relieved  to  hear  that  the  audience  was  not 
so  scanty  as  he  had  feared  it  would  be;  and  when 
the  acting-manager  came  round  with  the  "returns" 
Rayne  perked  up,  and  spoke  hopefully  of  "pulling 
the  thing  together  yet." 

It  was  his  first  play;  the  atmosphere  of  a  theatre 
had  grown  essential  to  him;  and  man  knows  no 
wilder  adoration  than  a  dramatist  may  feel  for  the 
actress  who  realizes  his  heroine — the  Dominion 
drew  Royce  Oliphant  like  a  loadstone.  He  watched 
Blanche  Ellerton  from  the  wings  while  she  was  on 
the  stage,  and  talked  to  her  in  the  wings  when  she 
came  off,  and  found  the  wings  a  void  when  she  was 
in  her  dressing-room.  The  not  uncommon  delusion 
that  to  obtain  disenchantment  it  is  only  needful  to 
view  the  "make  up"  on  an  actress's  face  at  close 
quarters,  is  the  reverse  of  the  truth  instead  of  a  fact. 
She  is  probably  far  better-looking  so- — -there  in  that 
light — than  she  is  by  nature;  and  the  consciousness 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  87 

that  she  is  "made  up,"  moreover,  is  by  no  means 
active  in  the  spectator's  mind.  At  the  rehearsals 
Miss  Ellerton  had  been  a  pretty  girl;  here  she  was  a 
beautiful  woman.  Very  soon,  indeed,  Oliphant  came 
to  remember  her  as  she  was  here,  and  forgot  the 
comparatively  insipid  face  which  belonged  to  her  by 
rights  altogether.  It  was  a  little  shock  to  him  the 
first  time  he  saw  her  again  in  her  own  person — they 
had  met  in  Oxford  Street.  But  for  the  glamor  of 
her  identity,  which  nothing  could  destroy^ — the 
knowledge  that  she  was  the  girl  who  inside  the 
theatre  affected  him  so  powerfully — he  would  have 
felt  the  encounter  saddening. 

None  the  less  he  was  delighted  a  few  evenings 
later  when  she  mentioned  that  her  home  was  in  Earl's 
Court,  and  it  was  understood  that  he  was  to  call  there 
some  afternoon. 

He  went  the  following  Sunday — he  would  have 
gone  before  but  for  the  dread  of  showing  himself 
impatient.  The  house  that  sheltered  the  goddess 
was  not  imposing  when  he  reached  it;  but  as 
he  waited  in  the  little  drawing-room,  with  its  dyed 
grasses,  and  photographs  of  Blanche  Ellerton  on  the 
mantelpiece,  he  smoothed  his  hair  a  trifle  nervously. 

She  came  in  to  him  a  moment  afterwards,  and 
they  exchanged  preliminary  platitudes.  She  was  fol- 
lowed by  her  parents,  and  a  sallow,  unattractive  girl 
of  about  twenty,  with  high  shoulders  and  a  flat  chest, 


88  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

who,  he  learnt  with  surprise,  was  her  sister.  There 
was  tea,  and,  on  his  part  at  least,  uneasiness. 

Mrs.  Ellerton  was  a  thin,  simple-looking  woman, 
prematurely  grey.  Her  destiny  was  to  write  novel- 
ettes to  order.  Novelettes  that  filled  a  couple  of 
pages — longer  novelettes  issued  at  a  halfpenny,  be- 
tween blue,  pink,  and  green  wrappers — novelettes 
that  were  "To  be  continued  in  our  next,"  all  came 
alike  to  her  pen.  She  took  pleasure  in  the  work; 
and  was  ashamed  to  be  pleased  by  it,  for  she  was 
keenly  sensitive  to  ridicule.  She  was  consoled  by  re- 
membering that  the  money  she  obtained  was  indis- 
pensable. Blanche  had  earned  a  little  as  a  child- 
actress  before  she  was  eleven,  but  the  five  pounds  a 
week  she  was  drawing  from  the  Dominion  was  the 
highest  salary  to  which  she  had  attained,  and  there 
were  many  months  in  which  she  earned  nothing  at 
all. 

The  head  of  the  family — the  husband  of  the  lady 
novelettist — was  James  Ellerton;  he  frequently  re- 
minded her  of  it — in  fact,  it  was  his  misfortune  that 
he  could  never  forget  it  himself.  He  had  formerly 
been  a  provincial  actor — a  calling  he  loathed — and 
as  a  provincial  actor  he  might  have  contributed  to- 
wards the  household  expenses  to-day.  Unhappily, 
some  ten  years  since,  he  had  written  a  very  clever 
novel,  which  evoked  most  excellent  reviews,  and  of 
which  the  publishers  sold  the  fewest  possible  number 
of  copies.     For  a  writer  who  had  been  likened  to 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  89 

Balzac — and  he  was — to  continue  to  make  a  fool  of 
himself  in  third-rate  theatrical  tours,  or  to  say,  "The 
dinner  is  served,  madam,"  in  London,  he  had  felt  to 
be  incongruous.  James  Ellerton,  in  the  Saturday 
Review,  was  "a  distinguished  novelist";  James  El- 
lerton, in  the  theatre,  was  a  nonentity  to  be  snubbed 
and  bullied.  His  success  in  Literature  gained  him 
no  jot  of  consideration  from  stage-managers  and 
dramatic-agents — as  the  adaptation  of  a  French 
melodrama  would  have  done — for  the  simple  reason 
that  nobody  knew  anything  whatever  about  it.  He 
had,  therefore,  retired  from  the  theatrical  profes- 
sion; and  at  very  lengthy  intervals  produced  two 
further  novels,  which  were  reviewed  highly  also,  and 
much  admired — by  the  reviewers.  No  one  else  had 
heard  of  them.  He  was  supported,  fitfully  by  the 
exertions  of  his  elder  daughter,  and  for  the  most 
part  by  his  wife's  novelettes,  whose  literary  quality 
caused  him  acute  disgust.  She  mentioned  them  in 
his  presence  deprecatingly. 

"It's  so  nice  to  see  you,  Mr.  Oliphant,"  she  said. 
"We  were  all  in  front  the  first  night,  of  course.  I 
do  hope  it  will  go  on!     Do  you  think  it  will?" 

"I  think  that  Miss  Ellerton's  performance  alone 
ought  to  be  enough  to  draw  all  London!"  he  said. 

"Oh,  how  lovely  of  you  to  say  so !  She's  worked 
so  hard,  Blanche  has;  and  she's  never  had  what  I 
call  a  'real  chance'  till  now.     But  the  drama  is  so 


90  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

good  in  itself !    I'm  sure  it  ought  to  run.    Mr.  Eller- 
ton  thought  highly  of  it;  didn't  you,  James?" 

Mr.  Ellerton  had  been  considering — as  he  always 
did  consider  on  being  introduced  to  anyone — how  to 
intimate  that  he  was  ua  distinguished  novelist";  and 
he  was  grateful  to  her  for  making  the  opportunity. 
It  would  have  been  beneath  his  dignity  to  let  her 
see  it,  however;  the  fiction  of  his  importance — the 
importance  of  his  fiction — was  maintained  on  the  do- 
mestic hearth. 

"The  literary  quality  of  the  dialogue,"  he  said  im- 
pressively, "of  course  appealed  to  me.  There  are 
lines  that  I  would  have  written  myself." 

"I'm  glad  you  liked  it,"  said  Oliphant;  "yes." 
He  saw  that  the  others  were  of  the  opinion  that  the 
elderly  gentleman  had  paid  him  a  great  compliment, 
and  was  a  little  puzzled.  The  father  wrote  then — 
that  was  why  he  wore  a  brown  velvet  jacket. 

"Papa  doesn't  often  praise  a  piece,  I  can  tell  you  !" 
said  Blanche.  "He's  so  fiendishly  critical.  You 
know  his  books?" 

"I — I  know  the  books  in  a  sense,"  murmured  Oli- 
phant.    "I'm  ashamed  to  say  I  haven't  read  them." 

"There  are  some  millions,"  said  Mr.  Ellerton 
with  a  fine  smile,  "in  the  same  position."  He  al- 
ways said  this,  and  said  it  rather  well.  "I  am  not 
— er — popular,  Mr.  Oliphant — I  won't  say  'success- 
ful,' for,  as  a  detail,  my  novels  obtain  their — er — 
columns  of  eulogy  in  all  the  important  papers."    He 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  9 1 

waved  the  papers  aside.  "I  have  never  consented 
to  cheapen  my  style  from  commercial  motives.  It 
may  be  a  weakness!     I  may  be  wrong!" 

"I  think  it's  the  reverse,"  declared  Oliphant; 
uvery  much  the  reverse !  To  know  he  can  afford  to 
do  his  best  work  must  be  a  literary  man's  greatest 
joy." 

Mr.  Ellerton  bent  his  head,  and  smiled  again — 
ineffably. 

"It  «,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  we're  a  very  brilliant  family,"  laughed  the 
actress;  "you've  no  idea!" 

"Do  you  write  as  well,  Mrs.  Ellerton?" 

"Oh,    only   a   little,"   she    faltered;    "my   writing 

is My  husband  is  the  author !     /  write  for 

papers;  I've  no  time  to  think  about  a  book." 

"You  write  more  than  a  'little'  then?" 

"Well,  they  keep  me  busy,"  she  confessed  nerv- 
ously; "don't  they,  James?  Did  I  tell  you  that 
there's  a  note  from  Mr.  Trussell  asking  for  a  ten- 
thousand-word  story  as  soon  as  I  can  let  him  have 
it?" 

"How  long  does  a  story  like  that  take  to  do?" 
Oliphant  inquired. 

Under  the  influence  of  polite  interest — an  influ- 
ence to  which  she  was  so  unaccustomed — the  simple 
woman  grew  expansive.  "Oh,  not  very  long,  if  I 
keep  at  it;  and  I  do  when  I've  begun!  Of  course 
my  tales  aren't — aren't — what  is  the  word,  James?" 


92  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"  'Serious, '  "  said  the  authority  carelessly. 

"Yes,  aren't  'serious,'  "  she  continued,  wincing — 
"in  a  literary  sense  my  husband  means! — They're — 
they're  written  to  suit  the  class  of  papers  that  want 
me;  but  they  take  hold  of  me  while  I'm  doing  them; 
and  I  don't  like  to  put  them  down." 

"I  can  understand  the  fascination  very  well,"  an- 
swered the  young  man.  "To  keep  seeing  oneself 
in  print,  too,  must  be  jolly !" 

"The  characters  seem  quite  real  to  me!"  she  said, 
"and — and  it's  exciting  when  one  gets  them  into 
some  dreadful  trouble,  and  doesn't  quite  know  how 
they're  going  to  get  out  of  it!  One  doesn't  worry, 
you  know !  There  are  nights  when  I  can't  sleep  be- 
cause I  keep  asking  myself  how  the  heroine's  going 
to  be  saved,  and "  She  saw  her  husband's  ex- 
pression, and  changed  color  pathetically.  "But  it's 
absurd  to  talk  about  my  writing  in  front  of  Mr. 
Ellerton !    /  only  play  at  it." 

"My  wife's  work  has — er — has  its  merits,"  ad- 
mitted the  introspective  novelist  whom  it  kept.  "It 
really  isn't  so  bad  as  some  of  the  stuff  these  papers 
trade  in;  I  hope  to  see  both  her  and  Blanche  advance 
considerably !  And — if  you  persevere,  Mr.  Oliphant 
— I  think  there's  somebody  else  I  shall  have  to  con- 
gratulate one  of  these  days !" 

"It  won't  be  on  my  plays,"  said  Oliphant  shortly; 
"I'm  an  actor."  He  was  sorry  to  be  conscious  that 
he  felt  the  visit  was  proving  very  dull. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  93 

All  this  time  the  girl  in  the  background  had  said 
nothing  except  "How  do  you  do?"  but  sat  regard- 
ing Oliphant  with  hungry  eyes.  Though  she  was 
accustomed  to  men  ignoring  her,  she  yearned  to  be 
noticed  by  them,  and  she  had  always  a  passionate 
hope  that  the  last  one  introduced  would  be  the  ex- 
ception to  the  rule.  The  attention  secured  by  her 
sister's  brightness,  her  father's  self-assertion,  even 
by  her  mother's  small  talk,  accentuated  the  force  of 
her  secret  mortification.  Life  contained  for  her  but 
one  brief  excitement.  It  was  when  she  stood  up  in 
company,  and  played,  in  an  amateurish,  untrained 
way,  some  simple  air  on  her  violin,  trembling  to 
know  that  now,  at  least,  men  looked  at  her.  At 
these  moments  there  was,  in  the  breast  of  the  semi- 
deformed  girl,  the  tumult  of  triumph  and  despair 
that  belongs  to  a  Paganini.  But  her  skill  was  of  the 
slightest,  and  nobody  suspected,  as  she  scraped 
"The  Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  that  she  felt  much 
more  than  a  mechanical  toy. 

"Gertrude,"  said  Mrs.  Ellerton  now,  with  a 
glance  in  her  direction,  "came  home  from  the  Do- 
minion hysterical.  How  she  cried  there !  So  did 
I — I  always  do — but  Gertrude  sobbed." 

"Did  you,  Miss  Ellerton?" 

She  turned  sick  with  the  intensity  of  her  desire 
to  say  something  "good" — something  that  should 
stimulate  his  interest.  She  clasped  her  hands  in  her 
lap  with  an  unspoken  prayer. 


94  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Yes,"  she  said  huskily,  her  face  suffused  with  an 
unbecoming  blush. 

"I  wish  it  had  been  your  business  to  write  some 
of  the  notices.  You'd  have  dealt  more  kindly  with 
me." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"The  receipts  are  going  up  a  little  every  evening, 
though,  lately;  perhaps  it  may  turn  out  well  after 
all — it's  possible.     One  can't  say." 

"No,"  she  said. 

"I  wonder  how  much  money  Mr.  Rayne  has!" 
exclaimed  the  leading  lady;  "do  you  think  he  can 
afford  to  wait  till  it  works  up  into  a  draw?  But  I 
oughtn't  to  ask  you  that." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  don't  know,"  Oliphant 
answered. 

"He  ought  to  advertise  it  more.  There  are  no 
advertisements — none  to  speak  of !  And — oh,  these 
Managers,  these  Managers !" 

"What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"Well,  the  advertisements  he  does  put  in — look 
at  the  extracts  from  the  notices  that  he  quotes ! 
They're  not  the  best,  they're  not  the  finest  by  any 
means:  because  the  best  criticisms  were  got  by  me; 
and  he  doesn't  want  to  advertise  anybody  but  him- 
self. 'Herbert  Rayne's  Latest  Success!'  And  what 
of  the  author  of  the  piece  and  poor  Blanche  Eller- 
ton?" 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  95 

"I'm  afraid  the  author  of  the  piece  can't  lay  claim 
to  many  good  criticisms,"  he  laughed. 

Her  mother  despatched  a  warning  glance. 
"Blanche  is  so  frank,  Mr.  Oliphant,"  she  murmured; 
"she  says  too  much  sometimes." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Oliphant  won't  tell  tales  out  of  school, 
/  know!  Have  I  been  indiscreet,  Mr.  Oliphant?" 
She  smiled  bewitchingly. 

"Why,  I  thought  we  were  friends?"  he  said. 

"I  feel  perfectly  safe  in  Mr.  Oliphant's  hands — 
I'm  not  alarmed!  But  isn't  it  so?  The  lines  that 
would  'tell'  go  into  the  waste-paper  basket.  You 
know  what  the  Press  said  of  me !  Did  you  see  the 
World?  Oh,  did  you  see  the  World?  I  must  show 
it  you!    Where  is  it,  mother?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  it,"  he  said;  "I  brought  you  the  cut- 
ting, if  you  remember." 

"Oh,  so  you  did — so  kind  of  you  !  Well" — her 
gesture  was  perhaps  a  little  unrestrained  for  a  room 
— "these  things  aren't  advertised,  and  there  ought 
to  be  half  a  column  of  them  in  all  the  papers !  I've 
suffered  in  the  same  way  all  through  my  career. 
They  won't,  they  won't  let  you  get  a  better  adjective 
than  themselves — the  vanity  of  a  Management  is 
simply  appalling!" 

"/  have  never  written  for  the  Theatre  on  that  ac- 
count," observed  the  novelist;  "I  wouldn't  do  it.  I 
would  not  consent  to  stultify  my  intention  because  an 
actor-manager  demanded  that  he  should  be  in  the 


96  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

centre  of  the  stage  when  he  ought  to  be  in  his  dress- 
ing-room. I  always  say  one  thing;  I  say:  'Come 
to  me  when  you  can  forget  that  you  are  managing 
this  house  for  your  own  glorification — and  then  I'll 
write  you  a  play.  In  the  meanwhile,  my  dear  sir, 
no!  You  don't  suit  me,  and  /  shouldn't  suit  you.'1 
They  may  be  offended;  but  I  say  what  I  mean." 

"My  husband  won't  give  in,"  boasted  Mrs.  El- 
lerton  feebly.     "He'll  never  give  in." 

"No !  those  are  my  principles,  and  I  shall  keep 
true  to  them.  Possibly" — he  lifted  his  eyebrows 
and  his  shoulders — "possibly  I  may  be  unwise!" 
The  doubt  troubled  him  less  because  he  had  never 
been  asked  for  a  play  in  his  life. 

"I  know  something  of  the  difficulties  of  the  pro- 
fession, naturally,"  said  Oliphant,  addressing  him- 
self to  the  actress;  "but  surely  you  have  nothing  to 
be  dejected  about?    You've  done  wonders." 

"Oh,"  she  sighed,  "if  you  knew  what  I've  had 
to  contend  with  in  my  career — the  obstacles  that 
would  have  crushed  an  ordinary  girl!  I  daresay 
I  shall  take  things  more  lightly  in  ten  years'  time ;  I 
suppose  a  woman  does  take  them  more  lightly  than 
a  young  girl" — her  tone  suggested  that  she  was  six- 
teen— "but,  do  you  know,  I  simply  writhe  to-day  at 
an  injustice !  Shall  I  ever  forget  when  I  went  to 
New  York  with  Mrs.  Sweet-Esmond?  She  got  me 
for  twelve  pounds  a  week,  between  ourselves — I  ac- 
cepted the  offer,  as  I  accepted  these  ridiculous  terms 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  97 

at  the  Dominion,  because  the  engagement  meant  an 
opportunity — and  then  she  simply  hated  me  because 
I  rehearsed  the  part  well.  'Miss  Ellerton,'  she  said, 
7  have  come  to  New  York  to  make  the  success — 
not  you/'  Cat!  I  think  that  tour  with  Mrs.  Sweet- 
Esmond  did  more  to — to  destroy  my  childish  trust- 
fulness than  anything  in  my  career!" 

He  caught  himself  wishing  that  she  would  be  satis- 
fied to  call  it  her  "life"  occasionally,  but  sympa- 
thized with  her  nevertheless. 

If  her  conversation  had  been  phonographed,  and 
reproduced  in  his  hearing  without  the  play  of  her 
eyes,  and  the  magic  that  her  presence  exercised  upon 
him  now,  he  would  have  judged  it  fairly  as  anybody 
else.  Had  he  gone  to  the  house  as  the  friend  of 
another  man  who  admired  her,  he  would  have  judged 
it  fairly  too;  and — if  he  had  been  a  fool — he  would 
have  attempted  to  convince  the  other  man  when  they 
left  that,  apart  from  the  inexplicable  histrionic  gift, 
there  was  "nothing  in  her."  As  it  was,  the 
blemishes  which  he  could  not  overlook  were  only 
spots  on  the  sun.  They  did  distress  him  on  his  way 
home,  but  for  the  veriest  instant.  He  even  per- 
suaded himself  that  they  had  a  charm,  because  they 
implied  a  glimpse  of  the  girl's  real  self — the  thing 
which  every  man  honestly  in  love,  every  man  not  a 
sybarite  in  the  emotions,  constantly  tempts  her  to 
expose  instead  of  assisting  her  to  veil.  The  man 
honestly  in  love  is  the  eternal  justification  of  the 


98  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

parable  concerning  the  goose  with  the  golden  eggs. 
In  truth,  the  longer  the  girl  takes  to  become  "real" 
to  his  sight,  the  longer  his  homage  will  last,  though 
she  may  be  able  to  display  as  many  virtues  as  eye- 
lashes; for  nearly  every  educated  man  is  uncon- 
sciously an  idealist  in  relation  to  the  opposite  sex, 
and  rarely  falls  in  love  with  a  girl  at  all,  but  with 
a  character  quite  different  which  her  face  suggests 
to  him.  That  there  are  contented  husbands  is  less 
a  testimonial  to  men's  wisdom  than  to  women's 
adaptability  and  tact.  "Familiarity  breeds  con- 
tempt" was  a  man's  adage;  as  a  reflection  on  fem- 
inine character  it  is  a  lie.  Women  are  idealists  too, 
but  they  idealize  their  possessors;  men  only  idealize 
what  they  seek  to  possess.  The  longer  the  average 
woman  lives  with  a  man,  assuming  he  isn't  a  brute 
— and  often  when  he  is — the  fonder  of  him  she  be- 
comes ;  and  on  their  silver-wedding  she  can  kiss  his 
hand  if  his  finger-nails  are  dirty.  But  it  is  a  severe 
chill  to  the  average  man's  adoration  the  first  time 
the  woman  he  worships  has  a  cold  in  the  head. 
Royce  Oliphant,  however,  was  wooing  severer  chills. 
It  was  seven  o'clock  when  he  reached  home,  and 
Mrs.  Tubbs,  whom  he  met  on  the  stairs,  informed 
him  that  a  boy  had  brought  a  note  for  him  about 
four.  Oliphant  opened  it  hastily,  and  read  the  pen- 
cilled message  with  astonishment.  It  was  from  Mr. 
Voysey,  and  stated  that  Rayne  had  been  thrown 
from  a  cab,  and  rather  seriously  hurt.    Would  Oli- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  99 

phant  play  "Clement"  the  following  evening?  Voy- 
sey  would  be  at  the  Eccentric  Club  till  eleven,  and 
must  know  to-night. 

He  did  not  hesitate  a  second.  To  appear  in  the 
piece  himself  would  no  longer  imperil  its  prospects, 
and  now  he  would  be  able  to  show  what  he  could 
do  in  the  leading  part.  His  chance  had  come;  but 
this  was  not  his  paramount  consciousness  as  he 
caught  his  breath.  The  thought  that  intoxicated  him 
was  that  he  was  required  to  make  passionate  love 
to  Blanche  Ellerton. 

Of  course  Rayne  had  had  an  "understudy" — who 
was  filling  a  minor  role,  and  drawing  two  pounds 
a  week;  and  of  course  the  aggrieved  understudy  was 
about  the  only  person  in  the  theatre  who  was  sur- 
prised that  he  wasn't  called  upon  to  play  the  part 
now  occasion  arose.  The  understudy  is  frequently 
given  cause  for  such  surprise,  but  to  substitute  his 
unknown  name  for  a  favorite's  when  it  can  be 
avoided  would  be  folly.  If  The  Impostor  had  been 
a  success,  Oliphant  would  not  have  been  thought  of 
either;  the  receipts,  however,  did  not  warrant  an- 
other forty  pounds  being  added  to  the  salary  list, 
and  the  actor-author  was  chosen  as  a  compromise 
between  a  man  with  a  reputation  and  the  indignant 
youth  who  had  been  praying  that  Rayne  might  be 
taken  ill  ever  since  the  dress-rehearsal. 

Oliphant  left  the  Eccentric  Club  with  the  part  in 
his  pocket,  and  walked  about  among  the  blue  rep 


IOO  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

furniture  of  the  Burton  Crescent  drawing-room, 
studying,  till  four  in  the  morning.  He  really  knew 
the  lines  almost  as  well  as  Rayne  himself,  and  his 
chief  anxiety  was  the  ''business. "  He  was  now  pain- 
fully alive  to  the  importance  of  his  opportunity,  and 
when  he  permitted  himself  to  realize  that  he  was  on 
the  eve  of  appearing  as  "leading  man"  in  London 
he  shook. 

Mr.  Voysey  had  written  to  all  the  Principals 
whose  addresses  he  remembered  and  early  next  day 
telegrams  were  despatched  to  the  rest.  At  one 
o'clock  Royce  went  through  his  scenes  with  them — 
nobody  doing  more  than  murmur  the  words — and 
then  clothes  had  to  be  decided  on,  and  a  visit  made 
to  Shaftesbury  Avenue  to  remedy  defects;  and  his 
hair  had  to  be  trimmed,  and  some  dress-ties  bought, 
and  a  moustache  selected;  and  dinner  had  to  be 
swallowed — with  the  part  propped  against  the  cruet 
— and  shoes  had  to  be  varnished,  and  his  make-up 
box  examined,  and  a  portmanteau  packed;  and  after 
that  he  had  to  stretch  himself  on  the  sofa,  and  try 
to  sleep,  tortured  by  the  thought  that  some  ghastly 
oversight  would  paralyze  him  when  it  was  too  late. 

When  Edmund  Kean  walked  into  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  "with  Shylock's  costume  in  a  bundle  on  his 
arm,"  he  found  it  necessary  to  dress  among  the 
supernumeraries;  when  Royce  Oliphant  arrived  at 
the  Dominion,  he  was  given  the  "star  room,"  and 
Rayne's  "dresser,"  and  all  the  appurtenances  of  a 


THE    ACTOR-M :\\  iVGSK  101 

position  that  he  hadn't  won.  On  the  whole  he 
thought  he  would  rather  have  been  without  them, 
though  he  appreciated  the  blessing  of  a  room  to 
himself;  he  felt  like  Cinderella,  whose  heritage  was 
the  scullery,  appearing  in  the  palace  as  a  sham 
princess.  He  was  made  up  and  dressed  half  an 
hour  before  his  first  entrance,  and  lay  back  in  an 
armchair  beside  the  mirror,  listening  to  the  vague 
sounds  from  the  passages  and  stage  that  crept 
through  his  nerves.  A  first  performance  in  a  Com- 
pany that  are  already  at  home  in  their  parts  is  a 
far  greater  ordeal  to  an  actor  than  a  "First  Night." 
At  a  "First  Night"  the  nervousness  is  general,  and 
the  artists  do  not  criticize  one  another;  but  when 
one  actor  alone  is  new  to  the  piece,  his  nervous- 
ness is  quadrupled  by  his  fear  of  his  companions' 
opinions. 

"Curtain's  up,  sir!"  remarked  the  dresser,  return- 
ing with  a  box  of  cigarettes. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Oliphant;  "how  long  have  I 
now?" 

"About  twelve  minutes — it's  just  on  a  quarter  to 
nine  when  Mr.  Rayne's  called.  Will  you  want  any- 
thing after  the  first  hact,  sir?" 

"Yes,"  said  Oliphant,  "you  might  get  me  a  small 
bottle  of  stout.  But  for  heaven's  sake  don't  be  late 
for  my  'change' !" 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  and  waited  for  the  call-boy's 
summons.     .     .     . 


I0'2  TIE    ^TOR-MANAGER 

"  'Clement !'  Mr.  Rayne,  sir!" 

The  wings  seemed  brighter  and  hotter  than  usual 
this  evening;  the  glances  that  he  caught  looked 
anxious.  He  had  still  nearly  two  minutes.  He 
walked  round  to  the  door  in  the  canvas  ''flat"  that 
he  was  to  open,  and  stood  listening  intently.  What 
was  the  prompter  hanging  about  for?  he  knew  what 
the  cue  was  well  enough !  "Lady  Plynlimmon's" 
voice  thrilled  him  —  she  ought  to  get  a  laugh 
here.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  came!  A  line  from  "Maud," 
and  it  would  be  the  instant  for  him  to  burst  into 
speech  and  enter.  "My  God,"  he  said,  "help  me!" 
The  cue  fell ;  and  he  turned  the  handle. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  further  contrast  to  the  Edmund  Kean  Night 
was  the  fact  that  it  wasn't  "marvellous  so  few  of 
them  could  kick  up  such  a  row,"  but  the  applause 
was  hearty  notwithstanding,  and  Oliphant  left  the 
theatre  a  happy  man.  He  had  succeeded;  he  knew 
it;  and  the  cordial  congratulations  of  the  Company 
buzzed  in  his  ears.  Naturally  the  success  lacked  the 
splendor  it  would  have  had  on  the  night  of  the  "pro- 
duction, "  before  rows  of  Press  men;  still  it  effected 
a  great  deal.  The  Stage  gave  him  a  glowing  para- 
graph in  the  next  issue ;  the  Era  was  equally  generous 
on  Saturday;  and  the  Referee  sweetened  his  Sunday 
bloater  by  its  hope  that  the  managers  would  take 
care  Mr.  Royce  Oliphant  didn't  return  to  the  prov- 
inces in  a  hurry — he  had  been  hidden  there  too  long. 

These  things  mean  that  many  people  drop  into  the 
theatre  who  would  not  go  otherwise ;  though,  as  the 
majority  of  them  gain  admission  by  the  presentation 
of  their  cards,  their  attendance  is  of  less  value  to 
the  box-office  than  to  the  artist  they  come  to  see. 
The  dramatic-agents,  for  instance,  went  to  the  Do- 
minion; and  those  on  whose  books  Mr.  Royce  Oli- 
phant's  name  was  not  registered  were  loudest  in  ad- 

103 


104  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

vising  him  to  put  his  trust  in  them.  Two  offers  of 
"leading  business"  were  made  to  him  speedily;  but 
one  was  for  a  spring  tour,  and  the  other  was  to  sup- 
port an  actress  who  was  going  to  "star"  in  America; 
and  he  held  fast  to  his  resolution  to  remain  in  town. 
It  looked  as  if  he  should  be  able  to  do  so  now !  At 
any  rate  he  had  obtained  a  hearing,  and  he  had  been 
very  fortunate. 

He  had,  indeed,  been  more  fortunate  than  he  quite 
realized,  for  not  only  had  the  opportunity  not  come 
too  late,  but — what  was  nearly  as  important — it  had 
not  come  too  soon.  Though  he  had  much  to  master 
still,  he  had  now  gained  the  experience  without  which 
his  talent  could  have  made  little  or  no  impression. 
He  had  conquered  the  hardest  of  all  histrionic  tasks : 
he  had  learned  to  convey  emotion  as  well  as  to  feel 
it.  Many  other  things  he  had  had  to  learn:  things 
unteachable,  and  things  that  he  might  have  been 
taught  with  ease — but  which  he  had  picked  up  with 
difficulty.  The  actor  is  taught  nothing.  When  he 
blunders  at  rehearsal,  the  stage-manager  tells  him 
to  "do  it  the  other  way,"  and  he  obeys;  and  in  a 
different  situation  the  "other  way"  may  be  a  clumsy 
way.  If  he  is  astute  and  assiduous,  and  an  enthu- 
siast, he  may,  by  acquiring  one  wrinkle  from  the 
part  he  plays  in  January,  and  another  from  the  next, 
which  he  plays  in  June,  know  very  nearly  as  much  in 
five  years  of  the  "tricks"  of  the  stage,  as  they  are 
foolishly  termed,  as  he  could  have  been  shown  at  a 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  105 

Conservatoire  in  three  weeks.  He  has  attained  by 
this  time  qualities  which  no  Conservatoire  could 
have  conferred,  but  he  is  like  an  author  beginning 
to  make  effects  with  a  language  while  he  is  still  ig- 
norant of  its  grammar. 

However,  Oliphant  had  profited  more  than  most 
young  men  by  the  seven  years  that  he  had  served  for 
his  Ideal,  and  such  excellent  accounts  of  his  perform- 
ance reached  Herbert  Rayne  that  the  invalid  suf- 
fered a  twinge  of  professional  jealousy.  Royce  him- 
self was  radiant.  Miss  Ellerton  filled  his  thoughts 
— Miss  Ellerton  more  than  ever  confused  with  her 
assumption  of  "Lady  Maud  Elstree" — and  elation 
and  love  rendered  these  days  the  most  delicious  that 
he  had  known  in  his  life. 

When  he  had  been  playing  "Clement"  rather 
more  than  a  week,  he  congratulated  her  one  evening, 
during  their  first  conversation. 

"What  about?"  she  inquired,  opening  surprised 
blue  eyes. 

"I'm  told  that  Rayne  will  be  able  to  come  back 
very  soon."  He  laughed.  "You'll  have  somebody 
to  act  up  to  you  again !" 

"M-mm?"  she  said. 

"You  know  you're  relieved  to  hear  it." 

"Ami?" 

"Well,  aren't  you — truth?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  for?" 

"Because  I'm  so  conceited;  I  want  to  be  praised." 


106  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Well — go  and  read  your  notices !" 

"I  could  recite  them  to  you!  Tell  me;  aren't  you 
glad  Mr.  Rayne  is  coming  back?" 

"Look  out,"  she  exclaimed,  starting  forward; 
"there's  my  cue !" 

He  moved  to  the  prompt-entrance,  and  watched 
her — a  different  woman  in  an  instant,  with  dignity 
in  her  bearing  and  sorrow  in  her  face.  Familiar  as 
he  was  with  the  environment,  he  was  momentarily 
sensible  of  the  strangeness  of  the  thing.  When  they 
were  both  in  the  wings  again — it  was  after  the  Act- 
drop  had  fallen,  and  she  was  hurrying  towards  her 
dressing-room — she  flashed  a  glance  over  her  shoul- 
der, and  threw  him  her  answer: 

"No — I'm  sorry!"  she  said,  with  a  smile  that 
blinded  him.  He  would  have  overtaken  her,  though 
she  ran  swiftly,  but  staggering  scene-shifters  inter- 
vened, and  the  walls  of  "Lady  Plynlimmon's"  dis- 
membered mansion  blocked  his  way.  Behind  the 
footlights  all  was  chaos  now,  and  there  was  his  own 
change  of  costume  to  be  made.  The  dresser  said: 
"It's  a  good  'ouse  to-night,  ain't  it,  Mr.  Holiphant?" 
but  he  scarcely  heard  the  question,  nor  the  depressed 
addendum  that  "No  doubt  a  deal  of  it  was  piper !" 
He  was  engrossed  by  the  knowledge  that  she  would 
be  "sorry,"  and  that  he  would  be  sorry — sorrier  even 
than  he  had  understood. 

But  when  he  attempted  to  tell  her  so,  she  declined 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  IO7 

to  be  sentimental,  and  he  returned  to  the  dresser's 
ministrations  sadly. 

There  was  a  card  stuck  in  the  looking-glass  now, 
and  he  saw  with  surprise  that  the  name  on  it  was 
Otho  Fairbairn.  At  the  back  was  scribbled:  "I'm 
in  the  stalls,  and  want  to  come  round  afterwards." 

"Tucker,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Tell  the  doorkeeper  that  when  Mr.  Fairbairn 
asks  for  me,  he  is  to  come  in,  please." 

Oliphant  was  sitting  in  his  vest  and  trousers,  re- 
moving his  "make-up,"  when  the  visit  was  paid. 

"Don't  shake  hands  with  me — I'm  all  vaseline," 
he  said.  "How  are  you,  old  man?  When  did  you 
come  back?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  cried  Fairbairn,  beaming, 
"you're  perfectly  'immense' !  I  do  congratulate  you, 
upon  my  word!  I  didn't  dream  you  had  it  in  you. 
I  say,  you  are  going  it,  with  your  own  piece,  too ! 
What  did  they  cut  it  up  for?  I  think  it's  very  good. 
Well,  how  are  you,  eh?" 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  Oliphant;  "awfully  glad  to 
see  you  again.  Sit  down  somewhere — Tucker,  clear 
a  chair,  will  you?    Have  you  come  from  Paris?" 

"Yes;  I  was  going  to  Cairo,  but  I  don't  think  I 
shall.  You've  got  to  come  and  have  supper  with 
me  at  the  club;  I  want  to  hear  all  the  news,  don't 
you  know.     Don't  say  you  aren't  free." 


108  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

His  evident  pleasure  at  the  meeting  would  have 
been  infectious  even  if  the  sight  of  his  fair  boyish 
face  had  not  been  agreeable  to  Oliphant  always. 
He  still  looked  so  rosily,  peacefully  young;  and  his 
affectations  were  so  innocent,  because  he  was  de- 
ceived by  them  himself.  Perhaps  because  he  was 
conscious  of  the  weakness  of  his  character,  he  was 
perpetually  adopting  a  new  one — for  an  hour  or  a 
season.  A  year  or  two  before,  the  Turf  had  been 
the  only  thing  worth  living  for — he  avowed  the  opin- 
ion frankly,  and  gloried  in  it;  but  six  months  later 
he  was  attempting  to  demonstrate  to  his  associates 
the  hollowness  of  their  pursuits,  and  talking  earnestly 
of  the  responsibilities  of  wealth,  and  the  beauty  of 
a  self-sacrificing  life  in  the  East  End.  The  phase 
lasted  the  entire  autumn,  and  was  succeeded  by  an 
interval  of  Schopenhauer-worship,  in  which  he  ex- 
pressed his  preference  for  solitude,  with  a  pipe  and 
his  bookshelves,  in  such  perfervid  terms  as  to  offend 
several  of  his  dearest  friends.  Allusions  to  the  latest 
character  that  he  had  resigned  were  received  by 
him  with  disapproval;  and  the  still  eligible  women 
whom  he  took  down  to  dinner  once  in  six  months 
were  frequently  embarrassed  by  their  doubt  whether 
to  approach  him  on  the  subject  of  Theosophy  or 
golf. 

One  of  the  truest  sentiments  that  he  had  uttered 
sprang  to  his  girlish  lips  when  he  and  Oliphant  had 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  TO9 

supped,  and,  having  lighted  cigars,  lolled  opposite 
each  other  before  a  fire. 

"I  do  envy  you  having  an  aim  in  life!'  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"Yes;  it's  a  very  good  thing  if  your  aim  is  true. 
It  means  a  big  disappointment  if  it  isn't,"  said  Oli- 
phant,  rather  startled. 

"It's  a  good  thing  anyhow,  Royce.  The  secret 
of  enjoyment  is  Endeavor  and  Purpose.  Look  at 
me — what  am  I?  I'm  miserable !  I'll  take  my  oath 
I'd  change  with  a  happy  mechanic." 

"Rot!"  said  Oliphant.  "This  is  new,  isn't  it? 
You've  always  struck  me  as  appreciating  your  ad- 
vantages very  thoroughly." 

"What  I  want,"  said  Fairbairn,  emitting  circlets 
of  smoke  and  contemplating  them,  "is  love,  Royce. 
Believe  me,  everything  else  is  a  bubble.  The  hap- 
piest man  isn't  the  wealthy  man,  or  the  famous  man, 
but  the  man  who  has  the  love  of  a  good  woman. 
There's  no  blessing  so  great." 

"No,"  said  the  lover;  "no;  there  I'm  with  you!" 

"Mais  cherchez  la  femme!  Oof's  a  big  draw- 
back, old  man.  I  never  get  a  woman  who  cares  for 
me;  other  chaps  do  !  I  want  a  big  passion,  Oliphant ; 
I  want  a  woman  to  renounce  the  world  or  something 
for  me.  I  suppose  there  are  women  who  renounce 
things  for  fellows  ?  But  damned  if  I  see  'em  !  There 
are  plenty  to  pretend,  if  I  like  to  pay  for  the  amuse- 


IIO  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

ment — some  want  jewellery,  and  some  want  settle- 
ments— but  I  don't  get  near  the  middle  lot  who 
would  love  me  if  I  were  a  Government  clerk." 

"Why  don't  you  read  for  the  Bar,  or  do  some- 
thing like  that?"  said  Oliphant.  "And  you  used  to 
write;  have  you  quite  given  that  up?" 

Fairbairn  nodded.  "Let's  have  a  whisky-and- 
soda  !"  he  said.  "Yes ;  I  get  nothing  but  disillusions ! 
I  see  a  girl — beautiful  girl;  good  family,  nice  figure, 
not  a  point  to  find  fault  with.  Well,  perhaps  I  think 
I'd  like  to  make  that  girl  my  wife.  But  she  wants  to 
marry  me  !  How  can  a  fellow  fall  in  love  with  a  girl 
who  wants  to  marry  him?  I  was  at  the  Opera  Ball 
the  night  before  I  left " 

"You  didn't  see  her  there,  did  you?" 

"Don't  chaff,  old  man — I  feel  very  deeply  on  the 
subject;  I  do,  really.  I  say  I  was  at  the  Opera  Ball 
the  other  night,  and  I  saw  another  girl — well,  she'd 
the  face  of  a  goddess,  a  face  to  die  for!  I  can't 
tell  you  how  intensely  she  affected  me  as  I  watched 
her!  She  was  standing  alone;  but  I  didn't  go  over 
to  her,  because  I  knew  that  to  hear  her  speak  would 
be  disenchantment.  It  struck  me  that  that  was  typical 
of  everything  in  my  life,  Oliphant!  Is  this  the 
'Scotch,'  waiter?  Yes,  the  'Scotch'  for  me.  I  wrote 
some  verses  when  I  got  back  to  the  hotel.  'Don't 
take  off  your  mask '  No!  What  is  it?  I  for- 
get the  beginning.  .  .  .  One  of  them  goes  like 
this — 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  III 

"Do  not  speak,  I  pray,  ma  mignonne, 
For  'Things  are  not  what  they  seem'; 
And  I  know  your  voice  would  surely 
Dissipate  my  drunken  dream. 
Muse  a  moment  mutely  so,  dear, 
With  your  cheek  upon  your  hand, 
While  I  worship  what  you  are  not — 
What  you  would  not  understand!" 

"It's  very  pretty,"  said  Oliphant. 

"I  wish  I  could  remember  the  rest,"  said  Fair- 
bairn  more  cheerfully;  "I  think  the  sadness  under- 
lying the  cynicism  is  rather Eh?  Oh,  every- 
thing's a  sell!  The  world's  grown  too  old  to  be 
lively — how  our  sons  will  amuse  themselves  Heaven 
alone  knows !  Paris  is  a  sell — where  are  the 
grisettes  and  the  romance?  When  you  expect  the 
descriptions  you've  always  received  to  be  realized, 
they  say,  'Ah,  that  used  to  be !'  It  never  was  in  my 
time,  though.  And  in  New  York,  when  you  want 
to  see  the  things  you've  heard  of  all  your  life,  they 
say,  'Ah,  that  was  once!'  It  seems  to  me  you  and  I 
were  born  too  late.  I  was  in  Brighton  last  season — 
I  believe  the  most  beautiful  women  in  Europe  were 
to  be  found  in  Brighton  during  the  season  'once.'  I 
said  I  should  like  to  see  one  or  two  of  them  this  time. 
'Ah,  people  don't  come  here  as  they  did!'  /'m  try- 
ing to  find  the  place  that  exists  to-day!  But  if  I  give 
Cairo  a  chance  I  know  it'll  be  a  fraud,  and  when  I 
complain  I  shall  be  told,  'Ah,  you're  talking  of  twenty 
years  ago !'  " 

"Is  that  why  you  are  here?" 


112  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Well,  I  should  have  seen  your  piece,  anyhow; 
I  meant  to  stay  in  town  a  night  on  purpose.  I  say, 
that  girl  who  plays  'Maud' — what's  her  name — is 
good-looking!     She's  a  clever  actress,  too." 

"Miss  Ellerton,"  said  the  actor,  gazing  at  the  fire, 

uYes,  'Ellerton,'  that's  it !     Is  she— er " 

"She's  a  very  fine  actress  indeed,  and  a  lady;  and 
— and  her  father's  a  literary  man,"  broke  in  Oliphant 
hurriedly.     "A  charming  family  altogether!" 

"I  suppose  you  meet  everybody  now,  eh — all  the 
celebrities?  It  must  be  a  change  from  the  provinces, 
by  Jove !  You'll  go  to  the  top  of  the  tree  with  a 
rush,  I  expect.     Well,  you  deserve  it!" 

"  'Go  to  the  top  with  a  rush' — what  are  you  talk- 
ing about?  I'm  likelier  to  be  'up  a  tree'  than  at  the 
top  of  it;  there  are  more  difficulties  in  the  way  than 
you  imagine." 

"Oh,  bosh!"  said  the  other,  with  the  easy  assur- 
ance of  the  friend  who  knows  nothing  of  the  mat- 
ter; "you're  always  so  doubtful  of  yourself!  You're 
miles  ahead  of  half  the  best  men  in  London.  You 
don't  appear  to  be  acting,  that's  what  'fetched'  me ! 
Why  don't  you  take  a  theatre?" 

"Why  don't  I  what?"  said  Oliphant,  staring. 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  theatre?"  repeated  Fair- 
bairn  in  the  tone  in  which  he  might  have  said,  "Why 
don't  you  take  a  cab?"  "It's  the  thing  to  do,  isn't 
it?    I'll  go  in  with  you." 

"My  dear  fellow,  do  you  regard  me  as  the  most 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  113 

conceited  man  of  your  acquaintance?  It's  very  kind 
of  you  to  suggest  such  a  thing;  but  I  shouldn't  draw 
twopence,  and  I  know  it." 

"You're  a  damned  fool,"  said  his  host  casually. 
"The  men  who  get  on  are  the  chaps  who  don't  know 
what  modesty  means.  'You  must  stir  it,  and  stump 
it,  and  blow  your  own  trumpet,  or  trust  me  you 
haven't  a  chance.'  Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  your 
own  theatre,  and  play  Hamlet?  You  used  to  talk 
enough  about  it,  I  remember.     Bored  us  to  death !" 

"Ah,"  murmured  Royce,  "that's  another  ques- 
tion! Would  I  'like  it'?  Oh  yes,  I'd  'like 
it' !  I'd  like  to  play  Hamlet,  and  I'd  like  to  have 
my  own  theatre.  Both  !  Either !  Whether  I  shall 
ever  realize  the  dream — or  half  the  dream — only 
the  good  gods  know.  Hamlet! — in  London !  .  .  ." 
He  shook  himself  and  laughed.  "Oh,  man,  why 
send  me  home  dissatisfied?  I  was  rather  puffed  up 
by  my  present  advance  when  I  came." 

"But  I'm  perfectly  serious !"  protested  Fairbairn. 
"If  you'd  like  to  have  a  shot  at  a  theatre,  I'll  go  in 
with  you.  I  won't  make  you  any  presents — you 
needn't  be  afraid  of  that!  We'll  do  it  on  commer- 
cial lines.    We'll  find  out  the  square  thing,  and " 

Oliphant  extended  his  hand,  with  a  flush  on  his 
face.  "You're  a  trump,  Otho !"  he  exclaimed: 
"you're  a  friend  in  a  million !  The  idea  is  prepos- 
terous, I  assure  you!     It's — it's  years  too  soon;  one 


114  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

takes  a  theatre  when  one  has  a  'following.'  But — 
well,  you're  a  pal!" 

He  did  not  make  his  way  towards  home  "dissatis- 
fied," nevertheless.  The  proposal,  wild  as  it  was, 
had  excited  him  temporarily;  and  with  the  efferves- 
cence of  fancy,  his  mood  was  gay.  London — 
already  the  City  of  Recollections  to  him — pulsed 
with  promise.  Overhead  the  stars  were  brilliant, 
and  an  artificial  radiance  tinged  the  puddles  on  the 
road.  In  the  stillness  of  Southampton  Row  his 
reverie  broke  into  voice:  "  'O,  speak  again,  bright 
angel!'"  he  cried;  and  an  unexpected  policeman 
scrutinized  him  as  he  passed.  Heavens,  how  absurd 
he  was!  But  he  returned  to  Bloomsbury  for  a 
moment  only,  and  in  the  next  he  was  under  the  bal- 
cony again,  where  Blanche  Ellerton  leant  as  Juliet. 
And  he  spoke  Romeo's  lines — beyond  the  hearing 
of  the  policeman — until  he  trembled  at  the  Burton 
Crescent  door. 

"Mr.  Rayne  will  resume  the  part  to-morrow  even- 
ing." There  was  no  exultance  in  his  mood  then. 
Could  he  ever  have  exulted?  The  theatre  has  heart- 
aches "peculiarly  its  own" — which  was  the  phrase 
by  which  Mrs.  Ellerton  habitually  described  the 
"grace"  of  her  heroines.  To  see  a  part  that  has 
been  played  during  months  by  the  woman  he  loves 
represented  by  her  successor  means  a  heartache  to 
an  actor;  and  a  bad  heartache,  accentuated  by  every 
familiar  line  the  new-comer  delivers — in  such  dif- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  II5 

ferent  tones  from  the  voice  he  is  used  to  hear.  Often 
she  wears  the  same  frocks — which  are  eloquent  to 
him  by  association — and  mocks  him  with  a  poignant 
resemblance  to  the  woman  who  is  miles  away,  or 
dead,  until  she  turns  her  face.  Perhaps  this  is  the 
worst.  It  hurts,  though,  to  act  with  a  girl  who  is 
dear  to  him  on  the  eve  of  leaving  the  Company  him- 
self. To-morrow  night  the  story  will  be  played 
again;  she  will  be  listening  as  she  is  listening  now — 
only  he  will  be  absent,  and  another  man  will  speak 
the  words  to  her  instead.  No  child  sits  in  the  dress- 
circle  to  whom  the  scenery  says  so  much  as  to  the 
young  actor  who  is  bidding  it  good-bye  at  a  time  like 
this;  he  tries  to  impress  the  picture  on  his  brain, 
that  not  a  detail  may  be  missing  from  his  memory 
of  her,  and  feels  for  the  rooms  of  canvas  all  the 
tenderness  with  which  one  quits  a  home. 

Certainly  Royce  would  retain  the  advantage  of 
being  the  author — he  could  still  talk  to  Miss  Eller- 
ton  during  her  "waits,"  as  he  had  done  before  the 
eventful  Monday;  but  when  he  entered  the  Dominion 
for  his  last  performance  there  he  was  wretched. 

As  the  piece  progressed,  sentimentality  swayed 
him  wholly.  He  might  never  act  with  her  any 
more.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  falling  from  heaven 
to  a  blank.  Each  minute  was  precious,  and  he  would 
have  caught  it,  and  prevented  its  escape.  The  re- 
sult might  have  been  foretold,  though  it  was  un- 
premeditated— he  confessed  in  the  love-scenes   all 


Il6  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

that  he  longed  to  confess  in  the  wings;  and  in  the  sit- 
uation where  he  had  to  clasp  her  to  him  in  despair, 
and  swear  he  wouldn't  let  her  go,  he  lost  control  of 
himself  in  reality.  The  approval  of  the  audience 
was  ardent — there  was  the  loudest  round  of  ap- 
plause that  had  been  heard  in  the  house  since  The 
Impostor  was  produced.  But  when  Oliphant  led 
Miss  Ellerton  before  the  curtain,  and  they  made 
their  bows,  they  didn't  look  at  each  other. 

"May  I  speak  to  you?"  he  said  presently,  when 
she  came  downstairs  dressed  to  leave  the  theatre. 

"Mr.  Oliphant?" 

"Yes,  I've  been  waiting  to  speak  to  you;  I  can't 
go  without  speaking  to  you."  Yet  for  a  moment 
he  could  find  nothing  to  say.  "You  know,  don't  you  ? 
Blanche,  I  love  you!" 

She  was  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  The  stage 
was  so  dark  now  that  her  pale  face  was  indistinct; 
he  could  see  little  more  than  that  it  was  hers.  "Do 
you  care  for  me  at  all?  If  I  get  on,  will  you  marry 
me?"  Some  of  his  life  seemed  to  leave  his  mouth 
with  the  last  question.  He  touched  her  hand  diffi- 
dently— there  was  a  glove  on  it,  and  the  cold  suede 
chilled  him.     "Blanche?" 

After  a  long  silence  she  said: 

"You've  surprised  me  very  much.     I Oh, 

no;  I  don't  mean  to  marry  for  years  and  years!" 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  in  a  dreary  voice. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  117 

"It  would  hamper  me  frightfully.  And  be- 
sides  " 

"And  besides  I'm  nothing  to  you?" 

"Oh,  you're  not  to  say  that,"  she  returned;  "you're 
a  friend;  and  I  hope  you'll  keep  one.  Our  friend- 
ship has  been  so  charming  and  so  interesting,  hasn't 
it?  It  would  be  simply  horrid  if  we  could  never  talk 
together  again  just  because  of  this."  She  smiled. 
"You  will  forget,  I'm  sure." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  shan't  forget.  If — if  I  remem- 
ber long  enough — if  I  succeed — will  there  be  a 
chance  for  me  then?" 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "but  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
for  years  and  years  and  years,  I  tell  you  !  Marriage 
is  a  mistake  for  a  young  girl  in  the  profession,  un- 
less she  marries  somebody  very  influential." 

"But— but  if  you  loved  me,  Blanche?" 

"Don't  let  us  talk  nonsense;  very  likely  I  shan't 
marry  at  all;  I  shall  live  and  die  an  old  maid!  Can 
you  see  me?  with  a  cap,  and  pepper-and-salt  ring- 
lets! .  .  .  We  shall  remain  friends,  shan't  we? 
I  must  say  'Good  night' — I've  my  train  to  catch." 

"May  I  walk  to  the  station  with  you?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like.  But  you're  not  to  be  foolish, 
mind!" 

They  passed  through  the  passage  and  turned  into 
the  Strand — which  was  henceforth  to  have  to  him 
yet  another  memory.  The  bright  decision  of  her 
tones  at  once  intensified  his  suffering,  and  precluded 


Il8  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

the  possibility  of  his  finding  further  words;  he  did 
not  disobey  her  verbally.  On  the  Temple  platform 
he  closed  the  door  of  the  first-class  compartment 
that  she  selected,  and  yearned  at  her  with  wide  eyes 
through  the  glass  till  the  train  rushed  on.  She  was 
praying  meanwhile  that  it  would  be  quick  to  start, 
for  she  held  only  a  third-class  ticket. 

Now  she  was  gone.     The  line  was  empty;  and  he 
moved  heavily  away  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  IX 

He  determined  not  to  go  near  the  Dominion  for 
a  week,  and  it  was  two  days  before  he  did  go.  Then 
he  denied  himself  the  stage-door,  and  went  into  the 
dress-circle.  It  was  delicious  pain.  It  is,  of  course, 
desirable  to  bear  "the  pangs  of  despised  love"  for 
any  woman — uthe  beautiful  time  when  one  was  so 
unhappy"  cannot,  in  fact,  be  repeated  too  often — 
but  to  be  wretched  for  an  actress  is  best  of  all;  the 
emotion  is  richer  and  more  varied  than  being  miser- 
able for  a  girl  in  Society.  A  man  refused  by  a  girl 
in  Society,  for  example,  cannot  feast  his  eyes  on  her 
features,  and  get  intoxicated  on  the  sweetness  of  her 
voice  for  two  hours  and  a  half  without  her  knowing 
he  is  there.  Oliphant  availed  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunities of  his  position  for  a  fortnight  to  the  fullest 
extent. 

That  he  did  not  avail  himself  of  them  longer  was 
because  they  temporarily  ceased  to  exist.  The  Im- 
postor was  withdrawn,  and  Miss  Ellerton,  like  him- 
self, was  out  of  an  engagement.  In  her  advertise- 
ments in  the  Era  she  called  it  "resting." 

He  now  regretted  that  he  had  not  gone  "behind" 
oftener  after  the  evening  of  his  declaration.     He 

119 


120  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

could  see  her  from  the  dress-circle  when  she  played 
another  part;  but  when  would  he  be  able  to  stand 
beside  her  in  the  wings  again?    Perhaps  never! 

Fortunately  there  were  other  matters  to  occupy 
his  mind.  Excepting  that  enough  remained  of  the 
hundred  pounds  to  spare  him  pecuniary  anxiety,  his 
situation  really  appeared  much  the  same  as  before 
The  Impostor  was  produced.  That  his  performance 
of  "Clement"  had  borne  good  fruit  he  knew;  but 
the  fruit  was  not  ripe — or  he  could  not  reach  it. 
Momentarily  he  seemed  no  better  off  than  if  there 
had  not  been  any  fruit  at  all.  The  Press  had  said  that 
the  London  managers  ought  to  snap  him  up;  but 
they  didn't.  Nobody  displayed  the  least  eagerness 
to  prevent  his  returning  to  the  provinces;  the  agents 
talked  about  the  provinces  as  persistently  as  ever. 
Much  better  parts,  much,  better  salaries,  were  of- 
fered to  him,  but  always  for  tour. 

Then  at  last  he  did  obtain  an  engagement  in  the 
West  End;  and  once  more  the  criticisms  he  received 
were  excellent;  but  the  piece  had  as  short  a  run  as 
his  own,  and  he  was  not  needed  for  the  next.  All 
the  same  he  might  now  have  remained  in  town.  He 
was  not  wanted  as  a  "hero,"  because  so  many  of  the 
theatres  are  in  the  hands  of  actor-managers,  who 
are  their  own  heroes;  but  he  could  have  remained 
in  town,  and  earned  ten  or  even  fifteen  pounds  a 
week  before  the  year  ended,  for  there  are  very  few 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  121 

professions  better  paid  than  the  Stage  when  once 
one  turns  the  corner.    His  stumbling-block  was  love. 

It  happened  that  in  the  Green  Room  Club,  one 
afternoon,  he  met  Rayne.  Rayne  had  lost  a  good 
deal  of  money  by  Oliphant's  drama;  and  as  "The 
Great  Dominion  Success,"  he  was  hoping  it  would 
put  something  back  in  his  pocket  by  means  of  an 
autumn  tour.  There  were  about  half  a  dozen 
dramas  uon  the  road"  at  this  time  described  as 
"The  Great  Dominion  Success";  some  of  them  had 
run  there  a  whole  month. 

"How  are  you?"  he  said.  "I  was  just  going  to 
drop  you  a  line  about  the  play.  I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  care  to  go  out  with  it?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  don't  want  to  go  on  tour,"  said  Oli- 
phant. 

"Well,  it's  for  the  autumn,  you  know;  everybody 
will  be  on  tour  in  the  autumn.  I  go  on  tour  myself, 
with  Erskine." 

"Oh,  you  don't  go  out  with  it  then?" 

"I  can't  afford  it — I  can't  afford  to  throw  away 
a  big  salary,  my  boy.  No,  I'm  sending  it  out  with 
the  cheapest  Company  I  can  get  together.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  it  might  be  worth  your  while  to 
play  'Clement'  for  the  sake  of  the  piece.  The  better 
it  goes,  the  better  for  you  as  the  author." 

"Humph!"  said  Oliphant. 

"If  it  does  well,  there  are  your  fees  for  years;  if 
it  does  badly,  that's  the  end  of  it — short,  sharp,  and 


122  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

decisive  !  I've  no  more  money  to  lose,  I  can  tell  you ; 
by  George,  the  Dominion  nearly  ruined  me!" 

"The  cheapest  Company  you  can  get  together!" 
said  Oliphant  ruefully.  "The  Impostor  wants  act- 
ing; it  won't  play  to  great  business  with  a  cheap 
crowd,  I'm  afraid." 

"It  must  take  its  chance.  I  did  all  I  could  for  it 
here,  and  then  what  was  the  business  like  ?  I  haven't 
got  back  the  'century'  I  put  down  on  the  contract. 
I'm  not  sure  the  wisest  course  wouldn't  be  to  accept 
the  loss,  and  let  the  whole  thing  slide;  I'm  not  in- 
deed!" 

Oliphant  looked  round  the  room  without  speaking. 
It  was  Saturday  and  the  tables  were  already  laid  for 
the  house-dinner,  though  it  was  only  three  o'clock. 
A  few  actors  were  playing  poker  near  the  small  fire- 
place; a  few  others  lounged  by  the  big  one,  puffing 
cigarettes;  but  not  many  members  were  present  yet 
— the  room  would  fill  after  the  matinees  finished. 

Rayne  shifted  his  cigar  between  his  teeth,  and 
continued  with  elaborate  carelessness: 

"Of  course  'Clement'  and  'Maud'  ought  to  be  in 
good  hands — and  'Maud'  I've  got.  If  you  had  seen 
your  way  to  play  'Clement'  at  very  low  terms,  I 
think  the  tour  would  have  been  safe." 

"You've  got  'Maud'?"  asked  Oliphant.  "What's 
she  like?" 

"Oh,  Miss  Ellerton  goes  out  with  the  piece;  I've 
managed  that.     I  thought  you  knew." 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 23 

He  knew  perfectly  that  he  did  not  know;  he  had 
been  leading  up  to  the  announcement  from  the  be- 
ginning of  the  conversation.  That  Oliphant  had 
been  in  love  with  Blanche  Ellerton,  and  that  Blanche 
Ellerton  might  have  been  fond  of  Oliphant,  had 
meant  a  possibility  of  obtaining  two  good  artists 
at  much  less  than  their  ordinary  salaries.  He  had 
been  on  the  stage  too  long  to  overlook  it.  With  the 
girl,  however,  he  had  failed;  she  did  not  reduce  her 
terms  a  pound  when  he  mentioned  that  Mr.  Oli- 
phant— whom  he  had  not  seen  then — had  "practi- 
cally settled  with  him."  Oliphant,  therefore,  would 
have  to  reduce  his  tremendously!  In  his  heart,  in- 
deed, Rayne  was  a  shade  sorry  for  Oliphant.  "Still 
as  Ellerton  was  engaged  at  her  own  figure,  it  was 
only  fair  that  some  of  it  should  be  contributed  by 
her  mash!"  That  was  how  he  put  it  afterwards  to 
the  lady  he  loved. 

"All  right,"  said  Oliphant,  "I'll  go.  How  much 
do  you  want  to  pay?" 

"My  dear  boy,"  answered  Rayne,  "I'm  ashamed 
to  tell  you.     Upon  my  soul  I  am !" 

He  overcame  his  reluctance;  and  even  the  lover 
started  before  he  said  "Yes."  However  he  did  say 
"Yes."  He  would  have  said  "Yes"  to  thirty  shil- 
lings a  week  in  view  of  the  inducement  offered.  On 
tour  with  Blanche !  He  walked  down  Bedford 
Street  intoxicated  by  the  prospect. 

To  the  ordinary  person  there  would  seem  little 


124  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

^that  is  attractive  in  a  mode  of  life  that  implies  oc- 
cupying different  lodgings  every  six  days,  and  under- 
taking a  railway  journey  to  a  different  town  every 
Sunday,  and  indeed  Oliphant  had  come  to  dislike  it 
himself;  but  a  goddess  can  change  discomfort  to 
delight  as  easily  as  a  fairy  turns  a  pumpkin  into  a 
chariot. 

The  tour  commenced  at  Northampton  on  the 
August  Bank  Holiday.  The  evenings,  of  course, 
were  much  the  same  as  the  evenings  at  the  Dominion; 
but  now  there  was  no  need  to  wait  until  evening 
for  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Ellerton.  Almost  every  fine 
morning,  if  he  were  patient  enough,  he  could  be 
certain  of  meeting  her  in  the  Drapery;  and  then 
what  more  natural  than  that  he  should  accompany 
her  in  her  stroll?  Occasionally  they  forsook  the 
shop-windows — the  shop-windows  of  Northampton 
are  not  the  most  alluring — and  wandered  through 
Hardingstone  Fields,  where  there  is  nothing  to  re- 
mind the  pedestrian  of  shoe  manufactories  and  pork- 
pies,  and  the  country  is  as  sylvan  as  if  there  weren't 
a  chimney  within  a  hundred  miles. 

From  Northampton  The  Impostor  proceeded  to 
Leicester,  but  the  name,  the  industry,  of  the  town 
they  happened  to  be  in  was  really  of  very  slight  con- 
sequence to  the  players.  Whether  the  chief  thor- 
oughfare was  called  "The  Drapery"  or  the  "High 
Street,"  whether  the  theatre  was  known  as  the 
"Royal"  or  the  "Grand,"  their  habits  and  pursuits 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I  25 

remained  the  same.  A  touring  actor's  world  moves 
with  him  on  Sunday.  On  Monday  when  he  wakes 
up  in  another  city,  his  surroundings  are  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  what  they  were  in  the  last  the  day 
before.  The  characteristics  of  the  streets  impress 
him  very  little — he  views  so  many  new  streets — and 
the  myriad  dwellings  contain  nothing  but  strangers 
to  him  wherever  he  may  be.  The  population  is 
merely  the  "Public,"  whose  raison  3! etre  is  to  go  to 
see  the  "show."  His  friendships,  his  quarrels,  his 
interests  are  in  the  theatrical  Company  in  which  he 
is  engaged. 

The  drama  did  not  attract  the  provincial  play- 
goers in  large  numbers,  but  the  author  was  not  se- 
verely chagrined.  So  long  as  he  could  saunter  be- 
side Blanche  Ellerton  in  the  morning,  and  now  and 
again  call  upon  her  in  the  afternoon,  he  was  able  to 
pardon  the  box-office  record.  The  afternoon  visits, 
indeed,  with  tea  in  the  twilight,  were  the  rarest 
privileges  of  all,  and  by  and  bye  they  held  moments 
in  which  he  was  convinced  it  wasn't  conceited  to  feel 
that  she  was  fond  of  him. 

And  he  was  right.  When  this  conviction  con- 
vulsed him  it  was  the  middle  of  October.  For 
nearly  three  months  they  had  been  constantly  in 
each  other's  society.  They  had  been  in  each  other's 
arms  on  the  stage  at  night,  and  walked  and  talked 
together  during  the  day.  When  the  towns  afforded 
opportunities,  they  had  made  little  excursions — to 


126  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

the  Castle  from  Leamington;  to  Jesmond  Dene  from 
Newcastle-on-Tyne.  Because  he  was  curious  about 
her  "Juliet,"  they  had  read  the  "Balcony  Scene'* 
together  in  her  lodgings;  her  "Juliet"  perhaps  would 
not  have  pleased  him  quite  so  much  if  it  had  been 
anybody's  else,  but  then  her  ambition  did  not  lie  in 
the  direction  of  Shakespeare  and  blank  verse.  He 
had  shown  her  he  adored  her  in  the  most  flattering 
way — by  endeavoring  to  conceal  it  in  obedience  to 
her  command.  She  was  a  very  practical  young 
woman;  she  had  erected  as  many  "warnings"  for 
her  guidance  through  life  as  disfigure  Hampstead 
Heath;  but,  being  a  woman  and  young,  it  was  not 
astonishing  that  her  feelings  should  have  trespassed. 
She  did  not  succumb  to  the  weakness  without  a 
struggle,  and  she  mourned  the  circumstances  by 
which  the  weakness  was  caused.  She  had  always 
hoped  to  marry  an  influential  man  possessing  a  large 
income;  influential,  because  she  did  not  wish  to  con- 
tract a  marriage  that  would  necessitate  her  leaving 
the  Theatre,  but  longed  for  notoriety;  possessing  a 
large  income,  because  she  loved  luxury — more,  had 
a  passion  for  it;  thirsted  to  see  her  figure  in  silk 
petticoats  and  satin  corsets,  and  to  let  them  fall  to 
the  floor  indifferently  when  she  undressed,  since  she 
had  so  many  of  them;  wanted  to  lie  in  a  perfumed 
bath,  and  have  her  maid  bring  her  chocolate;  and  be 
surprised  by  a  friend  as  she  nestled  over  her  bed- 
room fire  in  a  wrapper  that  cost  more  than  her  best 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I  27 

frocks  to-day.  It  had  been  her  aim  to  avoid  any 
errors  of  judgment  which  would  increase  her  diffi- 
culties; and  now  she  had  been  idiotic  enough  to 
become  fond  of  an  actor  without  reputation  or 
means.  Yes,  Blanche  Ellerton  regretted  having 
signed  for  the  tour  of  The  Impostor  very  keenly 
when  she  was  calm ;  only  she  was  not  always  calm, 
and  these  moments  in  which  she  yielded  to  senti- 
ment were  as  exquisite  to  herself  as  to  the  man  she 
loved. 

Nevertheless  she  had  no  intention  of  yielding  to 
it  unreservedly,  and  she  wondered  if  it  would  take 
her  long  to  forget  him  when  they  separated;  if  the 
nonsensical  ache  would  be  bad  to  bear.  The  tour 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  after  it  finished,  of 
course,  they  would  scarcely  meet.  That  was  well ! 
Perhaps  he  might  come  out  to  Earl's  Court  once  or 
twice,  but  not  oftener  certainly.  Once  or  twice 
couldn't  be  helped !  If  she  had  not  asked  him  to 
call  when  they  were  at  the  Dominion,  however,  she 
need  never  have  seen  him  again  at  all.  How  stupid 
she  had  been  to  ask  him !  Still  she  had  acted  from 
business  motives;  he  had  been  very  "taken"  with 
her,  and  how  could  she  know  but  what  he  might  have 
another  play  produced  in  London  soon!  Yes,  she 
had  been  quite  right — that  she  would  be  a  fool  about 
him  later  was  a  thing  she  couldn't  foresee.  She 
stretched  her  arms  above  her  head  and  yawned. 
Heigho,  these  beastly  rooms ! 


128  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

Oh,  she  was  dull !  What  a  shame  it  was  that  a 
woman  like  herself  should  be  moped  in  poky  lodg- 
ings, and  have  to  buy  two-and-elevenpenny  house- 
shoes !  And  she  had  such  pretty  feet!  Royce 
would  .  .  .  yes,  Royce  would  like  her  feet.  .  .  . 
How  ridiculously  he  thought  of  her! — and  she  had 
really  been  quite  candid  that  night  when  he  popped. 
Perhaps  not  quite  so  candid  since.  When  one  liked 
a  man,  of  course  one  did,  naturally,  take  a  little 

pose  of Well,  one  sympathetically  adopted  his 

favorite  key !  A  woman,  though,  would  have  known 
her  for  ever  after  that  night.     .     .     .     Men  were 

very  much  nicer  than  women!     If He  was  a 

darling!  Why  wasn't  she  a  woman  who  could  afford 
to  be  absurd?  it  would  be  lovely  to  marry  him! 
Wouldn't  it  be  lovely?  She  wasn't  yawning  now, 
she  was  smiling.  The  street-door  bell  rang,  and  she 
quivered  with  a  hope  which  she  felt  to  be  childish, 
for  he  never  came  unless  he  was  invited. 

It  was  his  voice  !  She  sprang  up,  and  dragged  the 
powder-puff  from  her  pocket,  and  pulled  at  her 
favorite  curl,  and  threw  herself  back  in  a  graceful 
position  before  he  had  wiped  his  boots. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  languidly.  Then  on  a  note 
of  surprise:  "You?" 

"Am  I  in  the  way?"  asked  Oliphant,  his  eyes 
devouring  her.  "I've  had  good  news,  and  I — I 
wanted  to  tell  you  about  it." 

"Good  news?    No,  sit  down,  do!     What  is  it?" 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I  29 

"It's  an  offer." 

'Tor  London?" 

"Yes,  more !  I  go  to  the  Pantheon.  Greatorex 
offers  me  'Faust' !" 

It  does  not  merit  contempt  that  her  first  emotion 
was  a  pang  of  jealousy;  or,  if  you  must  be  contempt- 
uous, despise  human  nature  and  not  Blanche  Eller- 
ton.  It  was  inevitable  that  she  should  be  envious. 
For  an  actor  to  be  chosen  from  the  provinces  to 
play  "seconds"  to  Greatorex — to  create  such  a  part 
as  "Faust"  before  a  First-Night  audience  at  the 
Pantheon — was  almost  the  highest  conceivable  com- 
pliment. The  Impostor  Company  had  been  shaken 
to  the  core  recently  when  the  whisper  ran  round  the 
dressing-rooms  that  "Greatorex  was  in  front."  They 
had  watched  him  from  the  wings,  and  acted  at  him 
from  the  stage ;  they  had  all — even  to  the  humblest 
among  them — dreamed  their  dreams  in  secret  for 
a  day  or  two,  and  pictured  the  opening  of  a  note 
which  would  mean  that  their  abilities  were  recog- 
nized at  last.  And  the  unlikely  honor  of  an  "offer" 
from  Greatorex  had  fallen — but  on  him;  and  she 
remained  where  she  was. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  murmured.  "Well,  you  are 
simply  'made'  now!" 

"I'm  on  the  road,  I  think,"  he  said.  "I  ought 
never  to  look  back  after  this  if  I'm  all  right  in  the 
part.  Of  course  I'm  already  quaking  with  the 
ghastly  misgiving  that  I  shan't  be  found  all  right." 


130  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"What  nonsense!  Besides,  it  will  be  all  'Mephis- 
topheles,'  you  may  be  sure."  She  could  not  help 
saying  that,  and  after  it  was  uttered  she  felt  more 
generous  towards  him.  "You'll  be  a  success,"  she 
added;  "I'm  certain  of  it.     I'll  come  and  see  you." 

"Will  you?  Not  the  first  night?  Good  heavens, 
how  nervous  I  shall  be!" 

"I  don't  suppose  I  could  get  seats  for  the  first 
night  if  I  tried.  You  may  send  me  a  couple  if  you 
like;  but  I  daresay  you  won't  be  able  to  get  them 
either.  I  say,  you  will  be  a  swell  now;  how  you'll 
look  down  on  us  poor  people !" 

Oliphant  laughed,  with  a  reproach  on  his  face. 
"If  I'm  anxious  to  get  on,  it's  that  you  may  like 
me  better." 

"What  a  cruel  thing  to  say!"  she  replied,  smiling. 
"And  what  a  story,  too !  Didn't  you  want  to  get  on 
before  we  knew  each  other?" 

"Not  so  much." 

"Now  you're  making  fun  of  me — that's  unkind! 
When  did  you  hear?  You  must  tell  me  all  about 
it!" 

She  did  not  want  to  talk  herself  yet;  she  wanted  to 
think.  She  looked  musingly  at  the  "Weighing  of 
the  Deer,"  surmounted  by  a  Japanese  fan,  between 
the  windows.  The  question  in  her  mind  was,  How 
much  difference  did  this  piece  of  luck  make?  Com- 
monsense  answered,  "None,"  firmly.  His  engage- 
ment might  be  a  thing  of  the  past  in  six  months, 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  131 

and  have  left  him  just  what  he  was  now,  excepting 
that  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  would  pepper  his 
conversation  with  inapposite  remarks,  beginning, 
"That  reminds  me  of  an  experience  I  had  when  I 
was  with  Greatorex."  No,  it  could  make  no  differ- 
ence to  anybody  who  wasn't  a  love-sick  girl  eager 
to  find  an  excuse  for  being  silly!  A  few  months' 
rapture.  And  the  price?  Two-and-elevenpenny 
slippers  to  the  day  she  died;  a  cheap  existence  bur- 
dened with  babies,  and  enlivened  by  the  perusal  of 
panegyrics  passed  on  the  women  who  had  outstripped 
her  in  the  race ! 

"Supposing,"  said  Oliphant,  "I  get  good  notices, 
and  I  remain  there  for  the  next  production,  and  for 
years." 

"I  hope  you  will." 

"It  would  be  a  grand  engagement — one  could 
scarcely  hope  for  anything  finer." 

"You'd  have  been  very  fortunate  indeed." 

He  left  his  seat,  and  went  over  to  her  side. 

"You  said  if  you  married,  it  would  have  to  be  a 
successful  man.  Blanche,  I  am  succeeding;  and  with 
you Oh,  we  should  go  right  to  the  top  to- 
gether!" 

She  bit  her  lip,  and  her  eyelids  fell. 

"Blanche — may  I  call  you  Blanche?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

"Blanche,  my  darling,  be  kind  to  me !  Oh,  marry 
me,  for  God's  sake — now,  to-morrow!     Let's  risk 


132  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

everything!  You  shall  never  regret  it.  I  swear  you 
shan't!     Will  you ?" 

She  shook  her  head;  she  didn't  wish  to  trust  her 
voice  again  just  yet. 

"Don't  you  like  me  at  all?"  he  demanded  impet- 
uously; "not  a  little  bit?"  Her  silence  continued, 
but  her  head  was  motionless.  He  dropped  on  to  the 
stool  beside  her  armchair,  and  seized  her  hands,  and 
showered  kisses  on  them  till  she  snatched  them  away 
because  they  were  playing  her  false. 

"Oh,  be  sensible!"  she  exclaimed.  "In  a  year  we 
should  hate  each  other!" 

"I  would  worship  you !  You  don't  know  me  if 
you  think  I  could  ever  love  you  less." 

"I  know  myself!  I  wasn't  meant  for  domesticity 
in  the  back-parlor — I  wasn't  meant  for  domesticity 
at  all.  I'm  an  artist;  I've  my  own  life  to  live,  my 
own  ambitions  to  satisfy.  I  want  to  be  paragraphed, 
and  interviewed,  and  photographed,  and  run  after. 
You  couldn't  give  me  one  of  the  things  I  want.  I 
know  it — I  know  it  as  well  as  if  I'd  been  your  wife 
ten  years.  Quite  the  reverse !  You'd  make  every- 
thing more  difficult  for  me — impossible  for  me !  If 
you  do  get  on,  what  then?  What  good  will  it  do 
me?" 

"I'd  buy  the  world  for  you!" 

"With  good  intentions?  You  can  never  be  a  rich 
man,  my  dear  boy — and  if  you  marry,  you  will  al- 
ways be  a  poor  one !     You  may  succeed — I  think 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  1 33 

you  will  succeed — but  your  success  will  mean  a  name, 
not  a  fortune.  Then  what  have  you  to  offer  for 
spoiling  my  career?  Am  I  to  be  content  to  sit  in 
the  stalls  all  my  life,  and  hear  you  applauded?"  She 
beat  the  treacherous  hands  in  her  lap,  the  bitterer 
because  she  was  fighting  against  her  heart.  "What 
can  any  ordinary  man  offer  a  girl  who  has  a  future 
without  him?  Marriage  is  all  very  well  for  women 
with  no  profession — as  a  Home  for  the  Helpless — 
they  were  nonentities  anyhow.  But  what  does  it 
give  to  a  woman  like  me  in  return  for  all  it  costs? 
/  don't  need  to  be  presented  with  shelter!  I  should 
be  a  lunatic!" 

"Plenty  of  married  women  have  been  famous 
actresses,"  urged  Royce;  "very  few  famous  actresses 
haven't  married.  And  I  may  have  a  theatre  one 
day;  I  know  a  man  who  would  help  me !" 

She  had  small  faith  in  the  man. 

"Do  you  think  marriage  made  the  struggle  any 
easier  for  them?"  she  retorted. 

"Yes,  I  do,  if  their  husbands  loved  them,  and 
could  sympathize  with  their  ideas.  Besides,  to  be 
an  artist,  a  woman  must  love  !" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "but  to  be  a  poor  man's  wife  she 
must  be  a  fool." 

He  choked  with  mortification  and  pain. 

"You  care  nothing  about  me,  of  course,  or  you 
couldn't  argue  so." 


134  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"No,"  she  said,  inwardly  triumphant,  "I  suppose 
that's  true." 

He  left,  cursing  the  vanity  by  which  he  had  de- 
ceived himself.  And  she  bit  a  hole  in  her  handker- 
chief and  cried. 


CHAPTER  X 

They  spoke  together  in  the  wings  but  briefly  that 
evening;  indeed  for  two  or  three  there  was  restraint 
between  them.  Perhaps  it  would  have  lasted  longer, 
but  on  Saturday  night  he  happened  to  hear  that  by 
a  chapter  of  accidents  she  had  been  unable  to  ar- 
range for  apartments  in  the  next  town,  and  would 
have  to  look  for  some  upon  arrival  on  the  morrow. 
Even  the  worst-paid  members  of  a  theatrical  com- 
pany engage  their  rooms  by  letter;  for  the  trifling 
reduction  in  the  rent  that  may  be  obtained  by  a  per- 
sonal application  does  not  compensate  for  the  dreari- 
ness of  tramping  from  address  to  address  after  a 
long  journey  until  a  vacant  lodging  can  be  found. 
He  begged  her  to  take  his.  She  refused;  and  'Vow- 
ing she  would  ne'er  consent,  consented." 

As  it  was  now  Oliphant  who  had  no  rooms  and 
no  dinner  awaiting  him,  the  lady  insisted  that  he 
should  dine  with  her,  and  share  the  fowl  which  he 
had  been  the  one  to  order.  The  circumstances  pre- 
cluded formality,  and  the  estrangement  was  at  an 
end.  He  was  thankful  that  it  had  been  a  fowl.  It 
might  easily  have  been  half  a  pound  of  steak,  which 
would  have  been  awkward. 

135 


136  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

Still  he  was  resolved  never  to  revert  to  the  subject 
of  his  love  for  her  again;  and  he  kept  his  resolution 
so  well  that  she  grew  hungry  for  the  music  of  the 
tale  tabooed.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  did  not 
hesitate  when  he  suggested  another  excursion.  It 
may  not  have  been  so,  but  even  if  it  was,  her  incon- 
sistency was  equalled  by  his  own,  for  this  excursion 
that  he  meditated  was  a  veritable  Sentimental  Jour- 
ney, aggravated  by  the  proposed  companionship. 

A  few  miles  distant  lay  a  country  town  which  was 
intimately  associated  with  his  boyhood.  He  had  gone 
there  with  his  father  seventeen  years  ago,  and  never 
seen  it  since.  He  had  scarcely  seen  it,  in  fact,  when 
he  bade  it  "good-bye,"  for  he  had  bidden  "good- 
bye" to  his  first  sweetheart  at  the  same  time,  and 
been  blind  with  tears.  The  maiden  had  been  twelve, 
and  he  a  stout  thirteen.  During  a  long  heartache  he 
had  made  abortive  efforts  to  paint  the  scene  of  this 
early  romance  in  water-colors  on  cartridge  paper. 
He  failed,  not  because  his  memory  of  the  spot  had 
weakened,  but  because  he  had  never  painted  anything 
hitherto  excepting  a  dog  kennel.  The  best  picture 
was  the  intangible  one  that  disappeared  when  he 
woke;  for  he  dreamed  of  arriving  at  the  little  sta- 
tion, and  surprising  Mary  Page  in  the  orchard — her 
name  was  Mary  Page — vividly  and  often;  and  he 
could  never  eat  his  breakfast  on  the  morning  after 
the  dream  occurred,  so  sick  was  he  with  the  longings 
of  his  little  soul,  the  craving  for  the  sight  of  Mary 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  1 37 

Page's  plaits.  He  now  found  himself  as  a  man  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  place  for  which  he  had  yearned 
so  desperately  as  a  child,  and  he  wanted  to  look  at 
it  again  with  Blanche  Ellerton  by  his  side. 

They  had  an  hour's  journey,  for  the  train  trav- 
elled with  intense  deliberation,  and  stopped  at  every 
opportunity.  At  last,  however,  they  arrived,  and 
Royce,  who  discovered  that  the  hallowed  station  had 
been  enlarged,  inquired  the  way  to  some  wooden 
steps. 

"There  are  some  wooden  steps  leading  to  a  road 
with  a  hedge  on  each  side,  aren't  there?"  he  asked. 

He  was  told  there  were  not,  and  was  disconcerted. 

"If  there  aren't,"  he  said  to  Miss  Ellerton,  "I'm 
afraid  it's  a  failure.  There  were  two  houses  in  a 
private  lane,  but  I  don't  know  what  the  lane  was 
called — I  don't  think  it  was  called  anything!  The 
houses  were  Mowbray  Lodge  and  Rose  Villa.  / 
lived  at  Mowbray  Lodge.  I  could  walk  there  blind- 
fold from  the  top  of  those  steps.  They  should  be 
just  here — I've  stood  on  them  a  thousand  times,  and 
watched  the  sails  of  a  windmill  go  round." 

"Did  your  First  Love  lean  there  with  you?"  asked 
the  actress;  "it  sounds  like  it." 

"No,  I  don't  remember  her  there;  she  was  always 
in  the  orchard  opposite  the  two  houses." 

"Eating  green  apples!" 

"They  were  ripe — and  the  best  apples  I've  ever 
tasted.     Here's  somebody  else !    There  are,"  he  re- 


138  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

peated,  "some  wooden  steps  close  by,  leading  to  a 
road  with  a  hedge  on  each  side,  aren't  there?" 

"Lord  love  yer,"  answered  the  native,  "ther  ain't 
been  no  steps  'ere  this  ten  year!"  He  seemed  to 
think  the  question  very  foolish,  and  continued  his 
way. 

"Rip  Van  Winkle,  the  steps  have  vanished,"  said 
Miss  Ellerton;  "what  next?" 

Royce  pondered,  and  looked  about  him. 

"Well,  the  road  can't  be  gone,  at  any  rate,"  he 
said.  "Perhaps  it's  at  the  top  of  this  slope?  I 
didn't  notice  we  were  on  a  slope,  did  you?  Shall  we 
try?" 

She  thought  it  a  good  idea;  and  the  road  was 
there. 

"Ha,"  cried  the  young  man  radiantly,  "  how  it 
all  comes  back  to  me !  'I  hear  my  own  mountain- 
goats  bleating  aloft,  and  know  the  sweet  strain  that 
the  corn-reapers  sing' !  But  I'm  sorry  they've  taken 
away  those  steps !  We  go  over  the  bridge,  and  the 
lane  is  on  the  right.  Isn't  it  pretty?  I  wish  we'd 
come  in  summer,  though!' 

"It's  very  pretty  now,"  she  said. 

The  entrance  to  the  lane  occurred  unexpectedly, 
at  least  to  her;  the  low  wall  above  which  the  trees 
waved  made  a  sharp  curve,  and  was  lost  in  a  laurel- 
bush.  Oliphant  urged  her  forward  joyously,  and 
then  they  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  and 
opposite  a  gate  which  divided  them  from  a  weed- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 39 

grown  carriage-drive.  He  said :  "Mowbray  Lodge  I" 
and  when  he  lifted  the  growth  of  encroaching 
creeper,  the  name  was  indeed  visible — which  was  to 
him  like  a  kiss  from  the  past.  After  a  minute  they 
came  to  another  house,  also  lying  back  from  the  lane 
behind  a  gate  and  carriage-drive;  and  this  time  he 
said  "Rose  Villa!" 

"Are  you  satisfied?"  she  smiled. 

"I  am  sad,"  he  declared  quite  truthfully,  though 
a  moment  before  he  had  been  delighted.  "Do  you 
see  that  fence?  It  separates  the  Mowbray  Lodge 
and  Rose  Villa  gardens.  It  was  across  that  fence  I 
first  saw  her.  Come,  I'll  show  you  the  orchard  that 
I  used  to  try  to  paint.  But — oh,  this  is  quite  dif- 
ferent! None  of  that  glass  was  there;  it  was  all 
open — it  had  nothing,  nothing  at  all,  except  the 
apple-trees  and  two  children.  Look,  there's  a  man 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  digging.     Let's  go  over  to  him !" 

The  ground  had  been  acquired  by  Mr.  'Obbs,  the 
florist  in  the  'Igh  Street,  they  learnt;  and  both  the 
houses  were  to  let.  "Page"?  Yes,  the  man  re- 
membered the  name  of  Page.  The  father  had  been 
a  doctor,  hadn't  he?  They  had  been  gone — oh,  a 
matter  of  nine  years. 

"I  believe  you're  sorry  you  came,"  said  Miss  El- 
lerton  gaily.  "Did  you  expect  to  find  Mary  waiting 
for  you?" 

"It  would  have  been  romantic  to  find  her  living 
here   still,   wouldn't   it?     Though,   of   course,    she 


140  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

wouldn't  have  known  me !  But  I  don't  think  it's 
Mary  I'm  melancholy  about  so  much  as " 

"As  what?" 

He  sighed.  "I  don't  know — it's  so  pathetic  to 
be  'grown  up.'  " 

She  accepted  it  as  a  jest,  and  laughed;  but  he  had 
spoken  quite  seriously.  Thoughts  of  his  childhood 
crowded  on  him.  His  father  used  to  stroll  along 
this  lane  in  the  sunset,  with  a  pipe  between  his  lips. 
There  was  no  sunset  now,  and  the  lips  were  cold,  but 
the  dead  day  lived  again  to  Oliphant.  His  sweet- 
heart, Mary  with  the  golden  plaits,  must  be — how 
old?  Nine  and  twenty!  He  realized  it  with  a 
shock.  If  it  had  been  nineteen !  But  nine  and 
twenty!  There  was  tragedy  in  the  difference  be- 
tween such  an  age  and  twelve.  And  the  boy  he  re- 
called so  tenderly,  where  was  he?  Gone  too.  He 
would  have  loved  to  commune  with  him,  as  the  boy 
had  always  looked  forward  to  his  doing.  How 
beautiful  a  comrade !  But  life  was  so  large,  and  the 
boy  had  been  lost,  somewhere  among  the  years,  and 
was  only  a  memory. 

"At  this  point,"  said  Miss  Ellerton,  "an  extraor- 
dinary thing  happens !  You  see  the  figure  of  a 
young  and  lovely  woman  in  a  contemplative  attitude. 
And  she  is  Mary  Page  revisiting  her  old  home.  It 
would  act  well!     Could  you  play  the  scene?" 

"The  heroine  would  speak  first,"  said  Royce,  rous- 
ing himself.     "What  would  she  say?" 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  141 

"Oh,  she  begins  with  a  question.  She  says:  'Ex- 
cuse me,  but  can  you  tell  me  if  there  is  a  caretaker 
here? — I  see  the  house  is  to  let.'  " 

"  'I  am  a  stranger,'  "  answered  Oliphant;  "  'I 
am  sorry  I  don't  know.'  " 

"  'I  saw  you  coming  from  the  garden.  I  fancied 
perhaps '  " 

11  'I've  been  guilty  of  trespassing.  I  knew  that 
garden  well  once;  I  couldn't  pass  it  by.'  " 

11  'You  knew  it?    You?'" 

"  'Dr.  Page  lived  here  in  the  days  I  speak  of.'  " 

"  'Dr.  Page  was  my  father's  name.'  " 

"  'Your  father?  Mary!  Oh,  forgive  me!  But 
— am  I  quite  forgotten?'  " 

"  'You — are — Royce — Oliphant.  Oh,  this  is  won- 
derful indeed!'" 

They  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  laughed  to- 
gether. Then  a  shadow  crossed  the  girl's  face,  and 
she  said  half  playfully,  half  in  earnest: 

"I  do  believe  that's  just  what  you'd  really  like !" 

"What  is?" 

"To  see  Mary  here,  and  make  love  to  her.  But 
I  daresay  she's  fat  and  ugly,  and  you'd  be  disap- 
pointed." 

"She  had  a  beautiful  nature,"  said  Oliphant.  "I 
hope  that  hasn't  got  ugly." 

"A  'beautiful  nature' — a  brat  of  twelve!  What 
did  she  do — always  give  you  the  lemon-peel  off  her 


I42  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

cake  ?  I  should  look  for  her,  and  marry  her  if  I  were 
you;' 

"I  expect  she  has  married  long  ago.  Why  have 
you  turned  cross  all  of  a  sudden?" 

"Cross !"  she  echoed  with  amazement.  "I'm  not 
in  the  least  cross.  .  .  .  Only  this  is  rather  dull, 
you  know,  standing  about  a  wet  lane  and  pretending 
to  be  somebody  else!" 

"Why,"  he  cried,  paling,  "it  was  you  who  sug- 
gested that !    If  I'd  guessed  it  bored  you Let's 

go  !     I'm  ever  so  sorry." 

"I  don't  want  to  go;  I'm  tired.  I  want,"  she  said 
imperiously,  "to  sit  down  on  that  bench,  and  have 
some  buns  and  lemonade." 

"Won't  you  come  and  have  some  tea?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "Well,  shall 
we  go  home?" 

"Will  you  stay  here  half  an  hour  alone?" 

"What  for?" 

"As  well  as  I  remember  there  isn't  a  shop  any- 
where near;  but  if  you  don't  mind  waiting,  I'll  race 
into  the  town." 

"Very  well,"  she  assented.     "I'll  wait  for  you." 

Although  the  task  that  she  had  set  him  was  a 
troublesome  one  to  fulfil,  and  though  she  looked  tri- 
umphant when  he  returned  in  a  heat  to  minister  to 
her  requirements,  she  ate  only  a  fragment  of  bun, 
and  sipped  a  quarter  of  the  lemonade.  This  puzzled 
him  very  much.     He  decided,  at  last,  that  she  must 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 43 

have  grown  faint  during  the  delay;  and  he  said  so, 
And  then  she  seemed  to  smile  involuntarily,  which 
puzzled  him  more.  However,  her  amiability  was 
restored. 

Presently  she  said  in  a  careless  tone : 

"What  do  you  call  a  'beautiful  nature'?  I  mean 
in  a  woman?" 

"I  don't  follow  you." 

"You  used  the  expression  about  something.  Oh 
yes !  You  said  that  the  child  had  a  beautiful  nature, 
that  was  it!" 

"Well,  it's  rather  difficult  to  define,"  replied  Oli- 
phant. 

"You  mean  'unpractical,'  I  suppose?" 

"Say  'unworldly.'  " 

"It's  the  same  thing — let's  keep  to  'unpractical'! 
Why — why  should  men  look  down  on  a  woman  for 
being  practical?  They  don't  look  down  on  one  an- 
other, do  they?" 

"I  don't  think  it's  true  that  they  do  look  down  on 
her." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  she  said;  "they  want  women  to  be 
fools." 

"Only  men  who  are  fools  themselves." 

"Do  you  think  vow're  a  fool?" 

"I  don't  want  women  to  be  fools." 

"But  you  despise  a  girl  for  being  sensible." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean."  He  v/as  begin- 
ning to  be  troubled. 


144  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"You  do,"  she  said  with  a  catch  in  her  voice. 
"You  despise  me!" 

The  gardener  in  his  shirt-sleeves  had  disappeared. 
Where  they  sat,  Oliphant  could  see  nothing  but  the 
trees  and  her  distress.  Emotion  for  an  instant  held 
him  dumb ;  but  it  was  for  an  instant  only. 

Then  it  was  she  who  was  troubled  by  the  blaze  sh^ 
had  made,  though  warmed  at  the  same  time  by  the 
heat  of  it. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "I  told  you  it  was  impossible." 

"But  you  shall — you  shall !  I  won't  let  you  go  till 
you  say  'Yes.'  " 

"You  are  mad  to  want  me.    I'm  a  piece  of  stone." 

"I'd  kiss  you  into  life  if  you  were !" 

"I'm  not  good  enough  for  you.  Oh,  believe,  be- 
lieve I'm  not!" 

"My  God,  there's  nobody  on  earth  like  you  !  Tell 
me  you  love  me." 

"I  don't!" 

"You  do  !  and  you  shall  say  it.    Tell  me !" 

"No." 

"Tell  me  you  love  me !" 

"I'm  stronger  than  you  think — I  won't!" 

He  began  to  fear  she  never  would;  and  indeed  she 
did  not  say  it.  But  the  next  second  her  face  turned 
whiter,  and  she  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck.  And 
after  all  they  were  engaged. 


CHAPTER  XI 

And  the  moment  when  she  first  regretted  it  was 
seven  hours  later,  after  the  candle  was  out  when  she 
lay  thinking.  But  the  next  morning,  when  she  was 
in  his  arms,  she  was  reckless  again  and  happy. 

They  did  not  love  each  other,  but  both  were  vio- 
lently "in  love,"  and  thought  they  did.  But  the 
woman's  self-knowledge  was  at  least  greater  than 
the  man's,  and  she  knew  that  there  could  never  be 
any  person  in  the  world  whom  she  loved  quite  so 
dearly  as  herself.  Therefore  she  was  exigent  and 
imperious,  and  if  he  had  been  less  infatuated,  would 
have  appeared  unreasonable  in  the  demands  she 
made  upon  his  time;  for  she  wished  to  stifle  the 
knowledge  and  the  voice  of  wisdom,  and  when  he 
was  with  her  she  succeeded. 

As  he  asked  no  better  than  to  be  with  her  all 
day  long,  it  was  only  when  the  candle  was  out  that 
the  voice  of  wisdom  had  a  listener. 

And  then  she  argued  with  it,  and  said  that  it  was 
maligning  her,  and  that  she  was  a  much  nicer  girl 
than  it  knew.  It  was  a  fact  that  she  was  forsaking 
her  faith,  but  since  it  had  been  a  false  faith  she  was 
acting  wisely  to  desert  it.    She  was  converted! 

145 


I46  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

Of  course  at  home  they  wouldn't  rejoice!  She 
hesitated  to  write  the  news;  and  then  decided  to 
write  it  quickly,  so  that  they  might  have  time  to  ac- 
custom themselves  to  the  idea  before  she  saw  them. 
It  would  mean  more  novelettes,  or  increased  econ- 
omy; she  wasn't  going  to  continue  to  help  them  after 
she  was  married — it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  Royce.  A 
woman's  first  duty  was  to  her  husband.  Besides,  it 
would  be  horrid  to  have  to  admit  to  him  that  her 
people  were  in  such  straitened  circumstances.  No; 
Royce,  poor  boy,  was  burdening  his  back  to  win 
her — every  shilling  that  she  earned  belonged  to 
him!  .  .  .  Mother — who  would  feel  the  differ- 
ence most — would  behave  best  about  it.  Father 
would  advise  her  to  take  years  to  make  up  her  mind, 
and  be  doubly  disagreeable  to  mother.  Gertrude? 
Gertrude  would  be  jealous  of  her  as  usual.  On  the 
whole  the  house  would  be  none  too  pleasant  during 
her  engagement;  she  was  sorry  she  had  to  return  to 
it.  .  .  .  How  Royce,  though,  would  loathe  taking 
her  salary,  the  dear!  And  going  to  the  Pantheon 
as  he  was,  he  could  certainly  do  without  it — at  all 
events  if  she  didn't  have  a  baby.  Probably  he  would 
refuse  to  touch  a  penny  of  it,  and  tell  her  to  keep 
it  for  pocket-money.  .  .  .  RealJy  their  life  would 
be  quite  charming!     With  nothing  to  do  with  her 

salary  but  buy  frocks  and  hats And  then  Royce 

would  want  to  give  her  frocks  and  hats  as  well ! 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I47 

Oh,  she  was  glad,  glad  she  was  being  brave,  and 
marrying  for  love — God  had  been  very  good  to  her ! 

The  Impostor  Company  disbanded  at  St.  Pancras 
a  few  Sundays  later.  Sunday  was  additionally 
tedious  to  her  and  Oliphant  now,  for — the  men  and 
women  being  divided  when  they  travelled — this  was 
the  day  on  which  they  saw  least  of  each  other. 
When  St.  Pancras  was  gained,  the  lovers  had  not 
spoken  together  for  more  than  two  minutes  during 
three  hours.  Oliphant  hurried  to  her  compartment 
at  once.  There  were  general  handshakes  amid 
the  clamor  for  cabs.  Many  of  the  Company 
who  had  become  staunch  friends  would  not  meet 
again  for  years,  as  has  been  said  before,  and 
names  and  faces  alike  would  be  forgotten;  but  this 
afternoon  they  were  still  comrades,  and  the  men  ex- 
claimed: "Ta,  ta,  dear  boy!  I  suppose  you  turn 
up  in  the  Strand  ?"  and  the  women  kissed  one  an- 
other affectionately,  and  repeated,  "Now,  mind  you 
write !" 

Royce  and  the  girl  stood  on  the  platform  con- 
ferring. It  had  been  arranged  that  he  should  not 
go  out  to  Earl's  Court  before  the  morrow;  but  all 
at  once  both  felt  the  manner  of  their  parting  to  be 
melancholy,  and  he  begged  that  instead  of  their  sep- 
arating at  the  station,  she  would  at  least  let  him  drive 
some  of  the  way  with  her.  She  acceded  to  the  re- 
quest readily  enough,  so  he  had  his  own  luggage  de- 
posited in  the  cloak-room,  and  got  into  her  hansom. 


148  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

It  need  not  be  said  that  she  had  made  use  of  her 
powder-puff  before  the  train  stopped;  and  she  was 
one  of  the  women  who  know  how  to  tie  a  veil.  She 
put  on  her  gloves  well  too.  She  could  not  help  their 
quality,  but  she  didn't  commit  the  infamy  of  buy- 
ing them  tight,  and  skipping  the  first  button. 
Women's  hands  were  meant  to  be  squeezed,  but 
never  into  their  gloves,  and  she  knew  it.  Oliphant 
took  Blanche  Ellerton's  hand,  and  thought  what  a 
wonderful  thing  it  was  to  be  a  woman.  There  was 
no  power  like  it!  What  a  delicate  little  nose  she 
had;  and  how  tempting  her  lips  were  under  the  net! 

"Darling!"  he  said;  "put  your  veil  up." 

"Oh,  I  can't!     People  would  see  us." 

"The  street's  empty;  look!" 

So  for  ten  seconds  she  put  up  her  veil. 

"I've  been  miserable  all  the  journey,"  he  said. 

She  confessed  coquettishly  that  she  also  had  found 
it  dull;  and  after  he  had  rhapsodized: 

"I  wish  this  fellow  wouldn't  drive  so  fast!"  he 
exclaimed;  "I  don't  know  how  I  shall  get  through 
this  evening.  You'll  have  your  people;  but  /  shall 
have  nothing — only  your  likenesses." 

"  'Only'  indeed !  Give  'em  back  to  me  if  you  don't 
appreciate  them." 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean!" 

"Do  I?" 

"I  shall  spend  the  time  writing  you  a  letter." 

"Silly  Billy!    You  won't?    Not  really?" 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  1 49 

"I  believe  I  shall!  Blanche,  you're  quite  sure 
they  won't  make  obstacles  to-morrow  when  I  come? 
You  won't  keep  me  waiting  a  year  for  you?" 

"Is  a  year  long?"  she  murmured,  gleaming  with 
mischief. 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "a  year!  It's  going  to  be  soon, 
isn't  it?" 

"Well,  we'll  see  how  good  you  are !  Why  are 
you  in  such  a  hurry?" 

"Because  I  love  you!  love  you!  love  you!  .  .  . 
Have  I  torn  it? — oh,  I  am  so  sorry!  Why  did 
you  pull  it  down  again?    .    .    .    Blanche!" 

"M-m?" 

"Where  shall  we  live?" 

"My  dear!"  she  laughed.  "This  is  very  pre- 
vious !" 

"No,  it  isn't;  what  have  we  to  wait  for?  We 
could  take  a  little  house  somewhere  to-morrow;  we 
could  furnish  it  on  the  hire-system.  And  we  can 
save  a  heap  out  of  my  salary.  Even  if  I  left  the 
Pantheon  after  Faust  we  should  have  plenty  to  live 
on  till  I  got  something  else." 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "we  shouldn't  starve,  I  know. 
Don't  forget  there's  my  salary  as  well." 

"Yours!"  he  exclaimed;  "yes,  there's  yours,  of 
course;  but  I  don't  want  you  to  buy  your  own  bread- 
and-butter,  sweetheart.  It  isn't  as  if  I  were  still 
getting  five  pounds  a  week  and  we  couldn't  marry 
unless  we  clubbed  together!" 


I50  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Don't  be  so  ridiculous,"  she  answered,  warm  with 
happiness;  "what  do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  do 
with  the  money  then  ?  You'll  tell  me  next  you  want 
me  to  leave  the  profession !" 

"I  won't  do  that — because  I  know  how  wretched 
you'd  be.  But  there's  one  thing  I  want;  I  want  you 
to  remain  in  town.  You  won't  go  on  tour  if  I'm  in 
London,  Blanche?" 

She  hesitated.  uNot  from  choice,  naturally.  I 
should  like  London  'shops'  myself." 

"But  I  mean  assuming  you  can't  get  one,  and  you 
are  offered  a  tour;  you  wouldn't  accept  it?" 

"But  if  I  didn't,  I  might  be  'out'  for  a  year  at  a 
stretch;  to  all  intents  and  purposes  I  should  be  leav- 
ing the  profession." 

"Oh,  nonsense !"  he  said  cheerfully;  "if  /  can  stop 
in  town,  you  can  certainly!  It's  easier  for  a  girl  to 
get  on  than  for  a  man." 

"They  say  it  is,  as  a  rule.  But  there  are  exceptions 
to  every  rule,  aren't  there?" 

"The  proper  thing  would  be  joint  engagements." 

"Yes,  that  would  be  simply  charming,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  think  you  could  get  me  into  the  Pantheon? 
Oh,  Royce,  wouldn't  it  be  simply  sweet  if  you  could 
get  me  into  the  Pantheon!" 

"I'll  try,  you  may  be  sure;  but,  of  course,  it's  a 
difficult  theatre  for  a  woman — I  don't  quite  know 
what  you  could  do  at  the  Pantheon.  Still  I  shan't 
be  there  for  ever;  we'll  go  to  a  house  where  you  can 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  151 

be  'lead' — although  as  /  shan't  be  'lead,'  that  won't 
be  unalloyed  bliss  either.  I  don't  want  to  see  an- 
other fellow  making  love  to  you  in  every  part  you 
play!" 

"As  if  it  mattered!"  she  said  scornfully.  "I 
shouldn't  know  he  was  there !" 

"Wouldn't  you?  /  should!  It  sounds  a  selfish 
sentiment,  Blanche,  but  upon  my  soul  I  almost  be- 
gin to  wish  you  hadn't  been  an  actress  at  all !" 

"How  abominable  !  Oh!"  She  turned  astonished 
eyes.     "What  a  perfectly  Philistine  thing  to  say!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Oliphant  with  a  helpless 
smile;  "I  know  it's  very  Philistine — that's  exactly 
what  I  thought  you'd  call  it.  But  I  worship  the 
ground  you  walk  on,  and  the  hat  that's  been  on  your 
head,  and — and  that  veil  I've  torn  on  your  face. 
My  dear,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  to  me !  I 
shall  be  green  with  jealousy  every  time  the  hero 
puts  his  arm  round  your  waist." 

She  drooped  a  little,  so  that  her  shoulder  thrilled 
him. 

"And  what  about  me,"  she  said,  "when  you  make 
love  to  the  ingenue?" 

"Oh,  Blanche,  you  know  that's  quite  different." 

-Is  it— why?" 

He  could  not  explain  precisely  why;  so  he  held 
her  hand  again  behind  the  apron  of  the  cab.  At 
last  he  said : 


152  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Well,  when  we  have  that  theatre  of  our  own, 
'all  will  be  gas  and  gaiters'  I" 

"Ah!"  she  said;  "and  drive  home  together  to 
Cadogan  Square  or  somewhere  in  our  brougham !" 

"Can  you  see  it — you  and  me  in  management?" 

She  had  seen  it.  She  saw  Cadogan  Square  and 
a  brougham. 

"Not  Shakespeare  all  the  time,  dearest  boy,''  she 
said;  "eh?" 

"No,  not  Shakespeare  all  the  time — rather  not; 
very  little  Shakespeare  !  But  I  think  you  and  I  would 
do  good  work  together  for  all  that;  shouldn't  we? 
We  shall  have  it — I  shall  get  on !  All  I  needed  was 
to  meet  you — to  encourage  me,  and  keep  me  up  to 
the  mark.  If  I'm  ever  tempted  to  sink  the  artist, 
refuse  to  live  with  me,  and  say  I  won  you  by  false 
pretences !  No,  seriously,  you'll  be  the  making  of 
me.  A  man  by  himself  is  apt  to  get  his  ideals 
blunted — the  world's  hard,  and  it  takes  the  edge  off 
them;  but  a  girl  like  you  would  keep  a  fellow  an 
artist  to  the  end  of  time." 

She  could  never  quite  understand  what  his  ideals 
were,  though  she  had  often  listened  to  him  on  the 
subject.  Now,  however,  when  he  said  that  a  girl 
like  herself  was  such  a  boon  and  a  blessing  his 
meaning  seemed  momentarily  clearer.  She  gave  a 
sigh  of  response,  and  felt  holy. 

It  is  an  error  to  suppose  that  Earl's  Court  is 
never  adjacent  to  St.  Pancras.     They  had  stopped 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I  53 

at  the  corner  of  the  street.  Having  ascertained  that 
the  trap  in  the  roof  was  down,  Oliphant  said  good- 
bye to  her,  and  then  got  out,  and  was  inwardly 
astonished  that  so  short  a  drive  could  be  more  than 
a  shilling  fare.  She  waved  her  hand  to  him  a  second 
time,  and  the  pleasure  within  her  had  scarcely  faded 
when  she  saw  her  home. 

Mrs.  Ellerton,  who  had  been  watching  for  her 
arrival,  behind  the  spiraea  in  the  window,  ran  to  the 
door  herself,  and  kissed  her  in  the  passage  almost 
as  warmly  as  she  desired  to  do.  She  had  not  for 
years  kissed  her  quite  so  warmly  as  she  desired  to 
do;  the  girl  confessed  that  she  was  not  demonstra- 
tive, and  since  the  summer  when  she  put  her  hair  up, 
her  mother  had  always  been  a  little  afraid  of  a 
repulse. 

Blanche  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room.  As 
it  was  Sunday,  and  there  might  possibly  be  callers, 
a  fire  had  been  lighted  there. 

"Tea  will  be  ready  directly/'  said  Mrs.  Ellerton; 
"I  told  Flora  not  to  make  it  till  you  came.  Are  you 
tired?  Well,  dear,  I'm  very  pleased — what  I  wrote 
you  is  quite  true,  Fm  very,  very  pleased!  I  wish 
we'd  seen  more  of  him;  but,  of  course,  all  that's  to 
come!  When  you're  rested,  you  must  tell  us  every- 
thing." 

"Where  are  the  others?"  asked  her  daughter, 
unpinning  her  hat,  and  plucking  at  her  fringe. 
"What  does  father  say  about  it?" 


154  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Well,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ellerton  evasively,  "of 
course  we  shall  have  to  manage  a  little  better,  shan't 
we?  And  it's  only  proper  that  we  should!  You'll 
have  your  own  home  to  think  of,  and  we  can't  ex- 
pect things  to  be  quite  the  same.  But  we  couldn't 
hope  to  keep  you  with  us  always;  it  was  only  to  be 
supposed  that  this  would  happen  some  day.  And  I 
do,  do  hope  you've  chosen  well,  Blanche,  and  that 
he'll  make  you  very  happy!"  She  half  opened  her 
arms,  but  the  girl  was  still  arranging  her  hair  in  the 
looking-glass  and  did  not  seem  to  see. 

The  novelist  and  Gertrude  joined  them  now,  fol- 
lowed by  the  general  servant  with  the  teapot. 

"I  think  I'll  go  upstairs  and  get  my  boots  off," 
said  Blanche  after  the  greetings.  "Can  Flora  take 
up  my  basket?    Gertie,  you  might  help  her?" 

"That's  a  new  cape,"  observed  Gertrude,  regard- 
ing her  enviously;  "you're  always  buying  new  things  ! 
/  can't  help  her  with  that  great  basket — I've  been 
ill  again.     Why  didn't  you  ask  the  cabman?" 

"Leave  it  till  to-morrow,  dear,"  said  her  mother; 
"one  of  the  tradesmen  will  carry  it  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. You  can  take  out  what  you  want  for  to-night ; 
I'll  come  and  help  you  presently." 

"I'll  get  my  boots  off  at  once;  I  shan't  be  a  minute. 
Is  that  toast?  Don't  let  Gertie  eat  it  all  before  I 
come  back — I'm  hungry." 

"How  unromantic,"  said  Gertrude;  "we  thought 
perhaps  you'd  eat  less  now  you  were  in  love !    And 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  I  55 

my  frocks  are  all  on  one  side  of  the  wardrobe  again, 
and  I've  left  you  half  the  chest  of  drawers;  so  don't 
go  taking  pegs  that  don't  belong  to  you !  I'm  very 
glad  to  see  you  again,  Blanche,  but  you  do  make  a 
difference  to  the  bedroom,  I  must  say!" 

"Never  mind,"  said  Blanche;  "you'll  soon  have 
one  all  to  yourself  for  the  rest  of  your  life !" 

The  toast  was  in  the  fender  when  she  returned, 
and  her  father,  a  moment  afterwards,  approached 
the  momentous  subject  facetiously. 

"So  we  are  going  to  be  married?"  he  said,  stirring 
his  tea.  "  'There  is  nothing  half  so  sweet  in 
life '     Is  the  happy  day  fixed?" 

"No;  it  isn't  fixed.  Mr.  Oliphant  is  coming  to 
see  you  all  to-morrow." 

"What  time,  my  dear?"  inquired  her  mother  with 
anxiety.  "Will  he  come  to  dinner?  We've  been 
dining  at  two  since  you've  been  away;  I  suppose 
while  you're  not  doing  anything,  we  may  as  well 
keep  to  it?" 

"It's  a  funny  time  to  dine,  isn't  it?  What  was 
wrong  with  five?" 

"Well,  dear,  so  is  five  a  funny  time  for  anybody 
who  hasn't  to  play  at  night.  And  you've  no  idea 
how  much  cheaper  middle-day  dinner  comes  out; 
we  have  a  haddock  or  eggs  at  seven,  and  it  only 
means  a  meat  meal  once  a  day,  If  you  don't 
mind » 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  girl,  shrugging 


156  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

her  shoulders;  "do  as  you  please — ask  him  to  stay 
to  eggs!" 

"We  shall  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Oliphant,"  said  the 
author.  "But  is  he — I  hesitate  to  express  myself, 
Blanche!  Is  he  coming  to  ask  my  opinion?  I  in- 
quire because  I'm  reluctant  to  tell  you  my  opinion. 
We  can't,  among  ourselves,  ignore  the  fact  that  you 
have,  from  time  to  time,  been  of — er — assistance  to 
the  household.  My  opinion  might,  on  that  account, 
be  misconstrued." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  you  don't  think  I  ought  to 
marry  him?"  she  said  for  answer. 

He  made  a  gesture  expressive  of  helplessness. 

"As  I  say,  I  hesitate  to  tell  you  what  I  think.  It 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  rash  step,  on  both  sides.  You 
have  always  been  a  clever  girl.  You've  the  right 
to  expect  a  husband  in  a  first-rate  position — your 
good  looks,  your  talent,  all  give  you  the  right.  If 
you  waited,  there  is  no  doubt  you  would  marry  into 
a  good  position.  In  choosing  a  young  man,  an  un- 
known young  man,  in  an  exceptionally  precarious 
calling,  you  seem  to  me  to  be  throwing  yourself 
away.  But  though  this  is  my  opinion,  it's  perhaps 
not  worth  uttering,  because — it's  painful  to  say — 
because  you  may  believe  it  to  be  the  outcome  of 
self-interest." 

"But  she  loves  him,  James,"  said  her  mother 
weakly. 

"My   dear!"    replied   Mr.    Ellerton   with    a   fine 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I  57 

smile,  "we  are  not  discussing  the  plot  of  a  penny 
novelette." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  should  marry  into  Park  Lane  if 
I  waited  till  I  was  grey,"  murmured  the  fiancee. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  would;  but  between  Park 
Lane  and  penury  there  are  a  great  many  grades.  I 
should  have  been  satisfied  to  see  you  engaged  to  a 
man  with  influence,  who  could  give  you  the  chance  in 
the  profession  that  you  deserve.  You  would  have 
been  a  celebrated  woman  then;   I   am  sure  of  it! 

Now You  may  be  happy  now,  if  domestic  life 

can  content  you;  but  I  fear  you'll  never  be  cele- 
brated !  You  may  go  on  struggling,  but  you're  handi- 
capping yourself;  instead  of  marriage  helping  you 
forward,  it  will  drag  you  back.  I've  heard  you  ex- 
press your  own  views  of  marriages  like  this;  why 
have  they  changed  all  of  a  sudden?"  He  regarded 
her  with  an  air  of  innocent  surprise.  "Why  have 
they  changed  all  of  a  sudden?"  he  repeated.  "And 
further,  I  am  sorry  for  Mr.  Oliphant!  For  him, 
too,  it's  a  blunder.  Marriage  is  the  end  of  a  man's 
youth.  By  himself  Mr.  Oliphant  might  rise,  but 
you  and  your  babies  will  be  a  weight  that'll  ruin 
him.  Don't  /  know  what  it  is — the  strain  of  sup- 
porting a  wife  and  family?  Don't  /  know  what  it 
is  to  be  crippled  for  life  by  an  early  marriage?  My 
dear  girl,  the  best  woman  becomes  a  burden  to  a 
man!"  The  wife  who  was  keeping  him  winced,  and 
her  eyes  filled.     She  did  not  speak,  however.     "No, 


158  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

Blanche,  since  you  really  want  to  know  what  I  think, 
I  think  you  are  behaving  like  a  short-sighted  child. 
The  difference  your  marriage  will  make  to  us  is  not 
vital — I  shall  have  to  write  a  little  more,  that  is  all 
— but  the  difference  it  will  make  to  you,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  him,  I  regret.     Yes;  I  regret  it." 

"I  thought  you  would,"  she  said  insolently;  "well, 
I'm  going  to  marry  him.  And  you  may  talk  till 
you're  tired — and  I  shall  marry  him  !" 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  room.  Gertrude's 
attention  reverted  to  the  cape,  which  had  been  tossed 
on  to  the  sofa,  and  she  wondered  how  much  it  had 
cost,  and  mentally  compared  it  with  some  that  had 
been  "marked  down"  last  month  at  a  local  sale. 
Mr.  Ellerton  lit  a  pipe  with  dignified  deliberation, 
and  the  mother  bent  her  wet  eyes  on  the  fire,  pitying 
everybody  except  herself.  She  would  have  liked  to 
feel  the  girl's  head  in  her  lonely  lap,  and  receive  con- 
fidences and  caresses,  and  plan  the  trousseau;  but 
that  was  how  things  happened  in  her  novelettes  at 
which  they  all  laughed. 

"Won't  you  have  some  more  tea,  James?"  she 
said  at  last,  with  a  nervous  effort  to  sound  at  ease. 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  the  novelist,  rising  with 
a  heavy  sigh;  "no  more.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  spare 
the  time ;  I  must  go  back  to  the  study,  my  dear,  and 
work!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

When  Royce,  rehearsing  "Faust"  at  the  Pan- 
theon, dwelt  on  the  fact  that  only  a  year  before  he 
had  been  reduced  to  sixpenny  dinners,  while  he 
awaited  his  first  London  "appearance"  at  a  salary 
of  two  pounds  a  week,  he  reflected  how  amazed  he 
ought  to  feel  at  his  progress.  This  is  as  near  to 
being  amazed  at  our  progress  as  we  ever  get. 

He  had  removed  to  rooms  in  Brunswick  Square, 
which  is  a  better  address  than  Burton  Crescent,  and 
where  he  was  on  the  whole  less  comfortable,  though 
he  paid  more  rent.  However,  he  did  not  propose 
to  stay  there  long.  Unless  his  "Faust"  proved  a 
failure  and  he  received  his  dismissal,  Blanche  and 
he  might  as  well  be  happy  soon  as  late.  The  girl 
no  longer  demurred,  and  it  was  arranged  that  they 
should  marry  early  in  February,  soon  after  the  play 
was  produced. 

The  usual  honeymoon  would,  of  course,  be  im- 
possible, and  they  meant  to  have  the  ceremony  on 
a  Saturday,  and  go  by  the  eleven  fifty-five  train  at 
night  to  Brighton,  where  they  could  remain  till  Mon- 
day afternoon. 

Mr.  Ellerton  had  spared  the  young  man  the  argu- 

IS9 


l6o  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

ments  he  had  wasted  on  the  fiancee,  realizing  that 
since  they  had  failed  with  his  daughter,  it  would  be 
quite  futile  to  repeat  them  to  her  lover.  Excepting 
that  his  air  was  rather  grandiose  indeed,  Oliphant 
had  found  nothing  to  complain  of  in  his  future 
father-in-law.  Gertrude  was  monosyllabic,  and  ap- 
parently characterless;  and  Mrs.  Ellerton  he  liked. 
It  was  with  her  that  he  and  Blanche  discussed  where 
they  should  live. 

She  considered  that  they  would  be  very  unwise 
to  take  a  house,  even  the  cheapest;  for  though  they 
might  expect  to  stay  in  town,  who  could  say  but  what 
they  would  both  be  on  tour  again  together  before 
long?  Desirous  as  they  were  of  playing  in  the  same 
theatre,  it  was  likely  enough !  Blanche  inclined 
towards  a  small  flat,  but  the  same  objection  applied 
to  this;  so  they  agreed  that,  after  all,  the  only  plan 
was  to  make  themselves  comfortable  in  furnished 
apartments  at  first.  Furnished  apartments  where 
they  could  put  out  their  photographs  and  not  have 
to  pack  them  up  again  at  the  end  of  a  week,  would 
really  be  quite  like  home,  she  said.  She  privately 
determined  that  they  should  not  be  in  Earl's  Court, 
however.  She  meant,  when  she  married,  to  begin  to 
form  a  circle  of  useful  people,  and  she  didn't  want 
her  family  dropping  in  on  her  at  inopportune  mo- 
ments: father,  who  always  referred  to  his  books, 
which  nobody  knew,  and  made  one  feel  so  ashamed ! 
and  mother,  with  her  ridiculous  novelettes  in  papers 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  l6l 

that  no  one  had  heard  of  either!  and  Gertrude,  who 
as  soon  as  she  learnt  that  a  man  was  expected,  would 
always  be  fishing  for  an  invitation  to  come  and  play 
her  fiddle!  Oh  no,  Earl's  Court  would  be  simply 
hateful!  It  was  a  pity  that  a  flat  was  out  of  the 
question — a  flat  somehow  suggested  a  circle !  But 
the  privilege  of  living  on  the  fourth  floor  or  in  the 
basement,  and  viewing  a  blank  wall  from  every  win- 
dow, was  very  expensive,  and  if  they  were  to  be 
away  eight  or  nine  months  out  of  the  year,  the 
establishment  would  certainly  be  a  white  elephant. 
It  wasn't  any  good  Royce  assuming  too  heavy  re- 
sponsibilities; preserve  her  from  leaving  one  atmos- 
phere of  money-worries  for  another ! — she  wanted  a 
respite  from  hearing  about  the  bills.  Besides,  re- 
membering their  profession,  nice  apartments  would 
look  natural  enough ! 

The  date  on  which  the  first  performance  of  Faust 
was  to  take  place  found  Oliphant  sick  with  suspense. 
There  was  no  rehearsal,  and  he  went  out  to  the 
Ellertons'  in  the  morning,  and  gathered  encourage- 
ment from  the  mouth  of  his  Beloved.  Although 
when  he  had  received  the  offer,  he  declared  that  he 
would  tremble  to  know  she  was  present  on  the  first 
night,  he  had  since  recanted.  They  were  engaged, 
and  so  it  was  different;  it  was  essential  that  she 
should  be  there !  He  had  brought  four  dress-circle 
tickets  to  the  house  a   few  days  earlier,   and  this 


1 62  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

morning  Blanche  gave  him  a  bunch  of  violets  out  of 
her  bodice  for  luck. 

In  a  tumbler  of  water  it  stood  all  the  evening  on 
his  dressing-table  among  the  sticks  of  grease-paint, 
and  after  each  Act,  when  he  came  off  the  stage,  he 
touched  it.  And  though  her  violets  were  not  re- 
sponsible, he  liked  to  think  they  had  had  something 
to  do  with  his  success  when  he  read  his  notices  on 
the  morrow.  For  finally  and  with  certainty  he  had 
"arrived."  He  could  not  have  acknowledged  it  to 
Blanche — though  he  objected  to  perceive  he  couldn't 
— but  in  a  fervor  of  thanksgiving  he  dropped  on  his 
knees  among  the  newspapers  and  muttered  to  God. 

The  girl's  felicitations  were  wholly  sincere  this 
time — he  pertained  to  her  now;  and  had  not  per- 
tained to  her  sufficiently  long  for  her  to  begin  to 
say:  "So  much  we  are  one;  and  so  much  I  am  I, 
and  you  are  you !" 

And  it  was  with  pride  that  she  asked  the  editors 
of  the  Era  and  the  Stage  to  insert  paragraphs  an- 
nouncing that  Miss  Blanche  Ellerton,  who  had  "cre- 
ated" the  part  of  "Lady  Maud  Elstree"  in  Mr. 
Royce  Oliphant's  drama  The  Impostor,  was  en- 
gaged to  be  married  to  him.  Oliphant  asked  her 
why  she  did  it,  and  she  replied:  "Silly  Billy,  isn't 
it  always  a  free  advertisement  for  us  both?" 

And  it  was  two  or  three  weeks  after  the  Speaker 
and  the  World  had  confirmed  the  pronouncement  of 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  1 63 

all  the  "dailies, "  that  he  and  she  went  to  Brighton 
by  the  eleven  fifty-five, 

The  wedding  had  been  the  quietest  possible.  For 
one  thing  the  Ellertons  could  not  afford  an  expensive 
breakfast,  and  for  another,  neither  the  bride  nor 
the  groom  had  many  friends  whom  they  were  eager 
to  invite.  So  simple  had  it  been  that  Royce  even 
lacked  a  best  man;  the  men  whom  he  knew  most 
intimately  were  benedicts,  and  so  ineligible  for  the 
post.  As  to  Otho  Fairbairn,  apart  from  the  objec- 
tion that  to  ask  him  would  be  to  ask  for  an  expensive 
present,  he  had  only  been  heard  of  once — full  of  a 
yacht  and  vague  projects — since  the  night  when  he 
came  ubehind,,  at  the  Dominion.  After  the  service 
there  was  cold  chicken  and  a  sort  of  champagne  in 
the  drawing-room;  and  maternal  tears  and  a  literary 
speech.  And  then  Royce  went  away  leaving  his  wife 
behind  him.  He  could  not  see  her  from  the  stage 
during  the  evening,  but  he  knew  she  was  up  in  the 
dress-circle  again;  and  when  the  curtain  fell  she  went 
round  to  the  stage-door  and  waited  for  him.  And 
it  wasn't  a  hansom  in  which  he  drove  with  her  to 
Victoria,  it  was  a  celestial  car,  and  the  occupants 
of  the  ordinary  cabs  in  the  Strand  received  his  com- 
passion. Poor  people  who  were  not  just  married! 
She  was  his  wife,  his  wife,  his  wife!  This  was  the 
moment  when  both  first  realized  it.  Emotion  kept 
him  voiceless;  and  while  they  sped  between  the  pass- 
ing lights  to  the  jingle  of  the  horse's  bell,  the  girl 


164  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

herself  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  allowed  to 
dream.  Her  mind  floated.  She  was  less  in  reverie 
than  under  the  spell  of  an  impression;  and  if  she 
thought,  her  thoughts  were  as  inextricable  as  a  rain- 
bow— they  only  colored  her  mood. 

It  wasn't  a  celestial  car  in  which  he  drove  with 
her  from  Victoria  to  their  apartments  when  they  re- 
turned, it  was  a  hansom;  still  they  were  both  very 
happy.  They  had  decided  upon  Maddox  Street, 
and  when  they  entered  their  drawing-room,  the  table 
was  laid  for  five  o'clock  dinner,  for  which  they  were 
a  little  late.  A  few  things  went  wrong — not  quite 
so  agreeable  as  the  hotel!  But  that  was  natural; 
and  the  landlady  and  the  servant  would  soon  fall 
into  their  ways !  The  photographs,  and  a  plant  or 
two  put  about,  would  give  the  room  a  homely  air. 
And  they  would  have  some  cut  flowers  on  the  mantel- 
piece every  morning.  With  Bond  Street  on  one  side 
and  Regent  Street  on  the  other,  it  would  be  quite 
easy  to  obtain  a  plentiful  supply! 

About  half-past  six  her  husband  left  for  the 
theatre,  and  then  Blanche  lay  on  the  sofa  before 
the  fire  and  mused.  Her  first  reflection  was  that 
they  must  buy  a  couple  of  cushions;  and  next  she 
perceived  that  if  they  hired  an  upright  piano,  it 
would  improve  the  aspect  of  the  room  very  much. 
A  good  piano,  left  open,  always  looked  well.  She 
thought  she  would  have  a  black  one,  and  get  a  gilt 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  1 65 

basket  of  red  azaleas  to  stand  carelessly  on  the 
top. 

So  she  was  married — it  was  very  wonderful !  He 
was  a  dear  fellow.  Would  she  ever  be  sorry?  .  .  . 
N-no. 

Ah,  she  knew  there  was  something  she  had  meant 
to  do !  A  cab  accident  they  witnessed  in  the  King's 
Road  had  suggested  the  idea.  She  rang  the  bell, 
and  borrowed  a  bottle  of  ink  from  the  landlady, 
and  then  went  into  the  bedroom  and  unpacked  her 
writing  materials.  While  she  was  in  the  bedroom, 
though,  she  might  as  well  get  into  her  dressing-gown. 
When  Royce  came  back  she  would  look  nice  lying 
on  the  sofa  in  her  dressing-gown.  It  was  a  pale 
blue  wrapper,  and  she  had  a  pair  of  slippers  to 
match  it,  embellished  with  little  paste  buckles.  When 
she  had  put  on  the  wrapper,  and  the  slippers,  she 
pulled  all  the  pins  from  her  hair,  and  shook  it  over 
her  shoulders,  smiling  in  the  glass  at  her  folly.  She 
did  indeed  look  very  charming  so;  and  she  returned 
to  the  drawing-room  complacently.  She  drew  a 
chair  to  the  table,  and  dipped  her  pen  in  the  ink,  and 
meditated.  .  .  .  "An  accident  which  might  have 
turned  a  joyful  occasion  into  a  tragedy — — "  No, 
that  wasn't  good;  and  she  wanted  to  begin  with  her 
name- — the  name  always  stood  out  more  then ! 
"Miss  Blanche  Ellerton,  who  was  married  on  Satur- 
day last  to  Mr.  Royce  Oliphant,  narrowly  escaped 
having  no  honeymoon "     She  nibbled  the  pen- 


1 66  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

holder;  "narrowly  escaped  having  no  honeymoon" 
didn't  sound  right  when  she  repeated  it  aloud — was 
it,  or  was  it  not,  what  she  meant?  Such  an  accident 
as  the  one  that  had  occurred  to  somebody  else  in 
Brighton  might  easily  have  happened  to  her  and 
him  when  they  were  driving  from  the  Pantheon  on 
Saturday  night — she  might  have  been  taken  to 
a  hospital  instead  of  to  Brighton.  "Miss  Blanche 
Ellerton,  who  was  married  on  Saturday  last  to  Mr. 
Royce  Oliphant" — what  a  pity  she  couldn't  say  at 
the  Chapel  Royal,  Savoy! — "had  an  experience 
which  fortunately  does  not  fall  to  many  brides.  As 
the  newly-married  pair  were  driving  to  the  station 

the  horse  fell  down,  and "    Fell  down?    Should 

one   say   "fell   down"   or   "fell"?     Cross   out  the 

"down"  anyhow!  "the  horse  fell,  and "     And 

what?  It  was  beastly  difficult  to  write  a  paragraph  ! 
She  plunged  her  fingers  into  the  unpinned  hair,  and 
stared  at  her  paper,  with  a  frown. 

She  had  only  just  completed  the  task  when  Oli- 
phant came  in. 

"Look!"  she  said  triumphantly. 

"I  am  looking,"  said  he;  "what  a  vision!" 

"Oh,"  she  murmured  against  his  mouth,  "that's 
not  what  I  meant;  I  meant  what  I've  written!  I'm 
going  to  post  it  in  the  morning." 

His  expression  was  less  proud  when  he  had  read 
the  paragraph. 

"Do  you — do  you   think  that's  necessary?"   he 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  1 67 

said.  "I  can't  say  it's  the  sort  of  thing  I  believe  in! 
It's  very  questionable  if  they'll  print  it;  and  if  they 
do " 

"If  they  do,  what?" 

"The  taste  is  questionable  still." 

"Why,  Royce,"  she  exclaimed  with  surprise, 
"what  do  you  mean?  You  know  the  value  of  a  para- 
graph surely?  The  more  one  can  get,  the  better; 
and  poor  me,  I  seldom  get  one/" 

"But  this  isn't  true.  I  hate  lies  even  if  they  don't 
hurt  anybody." 

'  'Lies'  is  a  werry  big  word  to  use  about  it.  And 
don't  you  ever  say  anything  that  isn't  quite  true, 
milord?" 

"I  suppose  I've  told  a  good  many  'polite'  lies; 
I've  never  told  one  for  my  own  advantage  that  I 
remember." 

She  gave  him  a  little  kiss  on  the  cheek,  and  held 
up  a  finger  laughingly. 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  have  a  business  woman  to 
take  care  of  you  at  last.  Oh,  Silly  Billy!  Well, 
what  have  you  got  to  tell  me?  I  suppose  you  had 
a  packed  house  as  usual?" 

She  found  the  evenings  dull  during  his  absence, 
and  was  eager  for  another  engagement.  Sometimes, 
however,  she  took  a  hansom  up  to  the  Pantheon 
about  eleven  o'clock,  and  they  went  to  supper  at  a 
restaurant.  This  was  jolly.  They  seldom  chose  the 
same  place  twice,  because  the  restaurants  were  new 


1 68  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

to  them  both,  and  they  wished  to  gain  experience. 
Royce  took  her  to  Dolibo's  first  of  all.  It  was  his 
second  visit  there,  and  when  he  had  gone  with  Rayne, 
he  and  she  had  never  met.  So  they  were  bound  to 
drink  champagne !  And  on  subsequent  evenings 
when  they  went  to  supper,  if  they  had  not  had  cham- 
pagne, the  jaunt  would  have  seemed  rather  a  fall- 
ing-off. 

Their  proximity  to  Bond  Street  provided  them 
with  a  very  pleasant  thoroughfare  to  stroll  in  on 
fine  afternoons.  It  did  not  cost  two  people  the 
amount  of  Royce's  salary  to  live,  even  with  occa- 
sional suppers  in  restaurants,  and  so  they  could  look 
at  the  shop-windows  and  buy  hats.  It  was  not  a 
solitary  occurrence  for  them  to  disagree  as  to  which 
hat  became  her  better;  and  when  he  had  yielded  to 
her  opinion,  he  begged  her  to  yield  to  his — and  she 
said  it  was  "simply  prodigal"  of  him,  and  that  she 
wouldn't  hear  of  such  a  thing.  But  he  came  out 
victorious.  They  liked  to  saunter  through  the  Bur- 
lington Arcade  also.  The  early  illumination  of  the 
windows  there  often  lured  them  in  from  the  cold 
daylight  of  Piccadilly;  and  the  gloves,  and  the  gar- 
ters, and  the  notepaper  were  attractive  trifles  to  a 
man  with  a  fascinating  woman  by  his  side.  After 
all,  they  were  practically  on  their  honeymoon,  though 
they  were  in  town;  and  a  very  cozy  honeymoon  it 
was.  Just  as  they  had  prophesied,  the  landlady  "fell 
into  their  ways"  with  the  ready  perception  that  dis- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 69 

tinguishes  the  genus — and  the  "extras"  in  their  bills 
were  a  sight  to  see. 

When  they  had  been  in  Maddox  Street  about  six 
weeks  Blanche  was  offered  an  engagement  at  the 
Sceptre.  She  was  to  receive  eight  pounds  a  week. 
This  did  not  seem  so  startling  to  her  as  it  would 
have  done  before  Oliphant  went  to  the  Pantheon, 
but  she  still  counted  it  high  terms,  and  she  was  very 
much  elated.  Royce  was  pleased  by  the  news  be- 
cause it  pleased  her,  and  it  was  not  until  after  she 
had  come  home  with  the  "part"  in  her  muff  that  their 
first  difference  arose. 

From  a  professional  point  of  view  it  was  an  ex- 
tremely good  part;  from  Oliphant's,  it  was  a  very 
offensive  one.  She  was  to  play  a  courtesan;  and  as 
courtesans  in  drama  are  much  more  brilliant  than 
courtesans  in  life,  she  had  to  utter  several  epigrams 
which  he  objected  to  his  wife  delivering.  He  tried 
to  induce  her  to  cancel  the  engagement,  and  their 
argument  grew  heated. 

"I  never  heard  anything  so  ridiculous !"  she  ex- 
claimed; "it  is  simply  Philistine  !    I Really  I'm 

surprised  at  you!  Cancel  it?  Why,  my  dear  boy, 
if  I  make  a  hit  at  the  Sceptre,  just  look  what  it 
means !  One  would  think  you  were  I  don't  know 
what." 

"I'm  your  husband,"  he  replied;  "that's  what  I 
am.  I  respect  you,  darling;  the  greater  the  hit  you 
made,  the  worse  I  should  feel!" 


170  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  indignantly. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me  on  purpose.  The  point 
is " 

"The  point  is  that  you're  being  Philistine,  simply 
Philistine!" 

"Yes,  you  said  that  before.  It's  always  you  who 
find  me  Philistine — I  don't  think  I  was  thought  so 
by  anyone  else.  Come,  don't  let's  wrangle,  Blanche" 
— he  sat  down  on  the  couch,  and  put  his  arm  round 
her  waist — "you  know  yourself  it  isn't  a  nice  part; 
now,  is  it?" 

"I  don't  think  that's  the  way  to  look  at  it  at  all; 
I  didn't  know  you  did  look  at  things  in  that  way. 
I've  heard  you  say  that  a  dramatist  should  be  free 
to  take  any  characters  he  pleased — the  most  aban- 
doned.    Haven't  you?" 

"I  never  said  I  wanted  my  wife  to  play  them,"  an- 
swered Oliphant  doggedly. 

"Oh!"  She  left  his  side,  and  walked  about  the 
room.  "You're  not  consistent.  I'm  an  artist.  I 
don't  recognize  such  suburban  distinctions !  I 
thought  you  were  an  actor,  Royce.  Upon  my  word 
you  make  me  gasp !" 

"Put  yourself  in  my  place !  Is  it  astonishing  that 
I  should  blush  to  know  my  wife  was  sneering  at 
decency  every  evening  to  make  a  crowd  titter?  I 
hope  I  am  an  actor,  but  I  was  a  man  first." 

"Oh,  yes — and  you  were  going  to  be  a  clergyman 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  171 

first!  Really,  I — I  almost  think  it's  a  pity  you 
changed  your  mind." 

Oliphant  did  not  reply  for  some  seconds.  The 
color  had  gone  out  of  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were 
angry. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said  in  a  sharp  voice, 
"there  is  no  question  of  my  consistency  here,  for  the 
part  has  nothing  to  do  with  art." 

"You  know  a  great  deal  about  the  piece,  don't 
you,"  she  retorted,  "considering  you  didn't  hear  it 
read?" 

"I  know  what  the  man  is  capable  of  who  wrote 
it,  and  I  know  this  character.  'Character'  ?  There's 
no  nature  in  it,  only  cheap  cynicism.  'There  is  some 
soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil' !  But  what  does  this 
teach;  what  is  it  for? — she  isn't  a  woman!  She 
came  out  of  a  writing-table  to  wear  Paris  frocks 
and  amuse  the  stalls." 

"Oh!"  she  cried;  "Teach'?  Tor'?  She's  for 
eight  pounds  a  week,  and  to  get  big  notices !  Don't 
be  a  fool." 

"Blanche!" 

"Well,  you  shouldn't  irritate  me.  I  think  it's  very 
cruel  of  you  to  make  childish  difficulties,  instead  of 
being  nice  and  congratulating  me  on  my  good  luck. 
I  do,  Royce" — she  whimpered  a  little,  and  pressed 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes — "I  think  it's  very 
cruel!" 


172  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"Blanche !"  It  was  a  different  "Blanche"  this 
time. 

"You — you've  disappointed  me  very  much.  I 
came  home  so  happy." 

"Oh  dearest,  don't  say  that — that  hurts !" 

"I  thought  we  were  one;  I  thought  we  entered  into 
each  other's  hopes  so  thoroughly,"  she  faltered  be- 
hind the  handkerchief. 

"We  do;  we  always  shall!"  he  said,  trying  to  take 
her  hand. 

"And  this  engagement — you  know  what  it  might 
mean  to  me." 

"But  you  might  get  another  just  as  good.  You 
might " 

"No,  I  should  be  turning  my  back  on  fortune;  it 
would  never  come  again — or  not  for  years.  Do  good 
engagements  keep  knocking  at  one's  door?  I  didn't 
want  to  feel  that  our  marriage  was  going  to  hinder 
me  in  any,  any  way — I  didn't!" 

She  suffered  him  to  capture  the  hand  now,  and 
draw  her  to  him;  to  dry  her  tears — and  bring  a 
smile  to  her  pathetic  lips  by  the  assurance  that  he 
"wouldn't  say  any  more." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

And  being  a  decidedly  clever  actress,  she  made  a 
success  at  the  Sceptre.  Her  name  became  familiar 
to  London  play-goers,  who,  knowing  nothing  of  the 
apprenticeship  that  she  and  her  husband  had  served 
in  the  provinces,  while  their  hearts  grew  sick  with 
hope  deferred,  spoke — as  play-goers  do  speak — of 
Royce  Oliphant  and  Blanche  Ellerton  having  "come 
out  at  the  Dominion  last  year."  The  phrase  "come 
out"  to  the  actor,  who  is  so  fortunate  as  Oliphant 
only  in  exceptional  cases,  and  has  often  grown  grey 
in  his  calling  before  he  obtains  recognition  in  Lon- 
don, has  its  humor. 

The  earliest  days  of  June  brought  Royce  his  first 
professional  worry  since  his  marriage.  The  Im- 
postor, which  he  fervently  wished  would  sink  into 
oblivion,  had  been  sent  on  tour  again.  Rayne  was 
now  deriving  a  small  profit  from  it,  and  there  were 
insignificant  author's  fees.  One  morning  when  Oli- 
phant received  the  Chester-le-Street  "notices"  from 
the  Press-cutting  agency  to  which  he  had  subscribed, 
he  was  astonished  to  discover  that  the  last  Act  of  his 
play  had  been  entirely  rewritten.  He  could  scarcely 
believe  his  eyes. 

173 


174  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"I  won't  stand  it!'  he  cried,  rising  excitedly;  "the 
thing's  monstrous;  I'll  have  it  stopped!  Rayne  has 
turned  The  Impostor  into  a  burlesque — he's  holding 
me  up  to  ridicule  all  over  England !" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Blanche;  "turned  it 
into  a  burlesque?" 

"Look  at  this !  He,  or  some  other  ass,  has  writ- 
ten a  new  Act.  Clement  is  sent  to  Portland,  and 
escapes  to  France.  And  Maud  and  Mrs.  Vaughan 
fight  a  duel — fight  a  duel ! — about  him  with  swords. 
They  fight  a  duel — two  English  ladies! — here  it  is 
in  print!" 

"Why,  the  man  must  be  insane!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Maud  and  Mrs.  Vaughan  fight  a  duel  ?  You  should 
go  and  see  him  at  once!" 

But  Rayne  was  not  visible;  and  being  in  a  theatre 
every  evening  for  three  hours,  he  thought  himself 
much  too  busy  a  man  to  answer  a  letter.  Then  Oli- 
phant  sought  Counsel's  opinion,  and  there  was,  of 
course,  no  doubt  that  he  could  obtain  an  injunction. 
Theatrical  advisers,  however,  pointed  out  that  if  he 
took  the  matter  into  Court,  Rayne  would  probably 
declare  that  the  drama,  as  it  left  Mr.  Oliphant's 
hands,  had  proved  so  disastrous  that  there  wasn't  a 
manager  who  would  "give  it  a  date."  The  statement 
might  not  be  accurate,  but  it  would  be  damaging. 
And  after  all,  the  Company  was  only  visiting  the 
"smalls,"  where  not  more  than  two  persons  in  five 
hundred  would  observe  who  wrote  the  play,  or  re- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  175 

member,  if  they  observed.  On  the  whole  he  was 
recommended — for  various  reasons — to  submit  to 
the  outrage  until  Rayne's  rights  in  the  property 
expired. 

So  the  hero  continued  to  escape  to  France,  and 
two  English  ladies  continued  to  fight  a  duel  about 
him;  and  those  among  the  audience  who  had  the 
sense  to  laugh,  continued  to  imagine  that  the  author 
whose  name  stood  on  the  play-bill  was  the  ignoramus 
they  were  entitled  to  laugh  at. 

"And  at  any  rate,"  said  Blanche,  "if  it  plays  to 
better  business  with  the  alteration — and  I  suppose 
Rayne  reckons  it  will — you'll  get  bigger  fees ;  don't 
forget  that!" 

Royce  looked  at  her  without  answering;  and 
though  the  subject  burned  within  him,  he  never  men- 
tioned it  at  home  any  more. 

Four  months  of  matrimony  had  been  ample  to 
display  the  dissimilitude  of  their  points  of  view.  He 
had  a  pretty  wife,  and — as  she  would  be  judged  in 
"the  profession" — a  talented  wife;  but  he  had  no 
companion,  and  never  would  have  one.  It  was  his 
own  fault,  he  was  quite  aware  of  it.  He  had  made 
a  mistake;  but  that  it  was  a  mistake  for  which  he 
would  have  to  suffer  all  his  life  did  not  lessen  the 
weight  upon  his  mind  as  he  realized  it.  She  was  fond 
of  describing  herself  as  an  artist,  and  when  they 
disagreed  upon  practical  matters,  she  insisted  also 
that  she  was  a  business  woman;  but  to  him  she  ap- 


176  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

peared  a  business  woman  always,  and  an  artist  only 
when  she  was  on  the  boards.  She  was  an  actress, 
he  did  not  deny  that — and  it  was  a  puzzle  to  him 
how  she  was  able  to  project  herself  into  a  part — but 
her  taste  in  dramatic  literature  was  nil.  She  cared 
no  more  about  the  quality  of  a  play  in  which  she 
was  engaged  than  did  the  scene-painters.  For  a 
piece  to  "run"  was  everything  that  she  had  imagined 
anybody  could  ask  of  it.  "Success"  to  her  was  the 
last  word;  and  succes  d'estime  was  the  French  for 
failure.  Money  was  spent  freely  in  the  Maddox 
Street  rooms,  but  he  never  saw  her  spend  a  shilling 
on  a  book,  and  rarely  saw  her  read  one.  Their  con- 
versation yielded  nothing,  was  barren,  dry  as  ashes 
in  his  mouth.  He  could  not  talk  to  her  as  he  wanted 
to  talk  to  someone,  because  the  references,  the  com- 
parisons he  made,  had  no  significance  to  her,  and  his 
attitude  towards  the  Theatre  she  found  wholly  in- 
comprehensible. They  had  at  this  period  only  two 
interests  in  common.  One  was  the  removal  they 
were  about  to  make  to  a  small  furnished  flat  in  Vic- 
toria Street — she  wanted  a  flat,  and  it  was  a  more 
sensible  arrangement  than  living  in  lodgings,  and 
wasting  half  his  salary  outside;  the  other  was  the 
child  that  was  expected  to  be  born  to  them  at  the  end 
of  November. 

It  may  be  thought  that  these  meant  a  good  deal, 
but  wherever  their  home  might  be,  Oliphant  must 
live  chiefly  within  himself;  and  as  to  the  child— well, 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  177 

she  had  hurt  him  very  much  about  the  child,  and 
though  he  tried  to  forget  it,  the  pride  of  anticipation 
that  he  might  have  felt  was  absent.  She  was  now 
resigning  herself  to  the  idea  of  becoming  a  mother; 
but  he  had  known  nothing  until  she  had  suffered  in 
secret,  and  made  herself  ill;  and  when  he  reproached 
her,  she  had  turned  from  him,  crying  passionately 
that  "This  would  prevent  her  following  up  her 
Sceptre  success,  and  now  she  would  be  out  of  a  shop 
all  through  the  autumn!" 

Of  her  parents  and  sister  he  saw  but  little.  No 
mother-in-law  could  have  been  less  obtrusive  than 
was  Mrs.  Ellerton.  Oliphant  had  gathered  enough 
of  the  family's  circumstances  to  understand  that  they 
must  miss  their  daughter's  help,  and  he  assumed  that 
some  of  Blanche's  eight  pounds  went  to  Earl's  Court 
every  week.  She  did  not  tell  him  that  it  was  so,  and 
he  did  not  inquire;  nor,  if  he  had  been  better  versed 
in  the  prices  of  West  End  modistes,  would  any  ques- 
tion have  been  necessary. 

They  moved  into  the  flat  on  the  4th  of  June. 
Blanche's  engagement  at  the  Sceptre  would  soon 
terminate,  but  at  the  Pantheon  Faust  was  running 
still.  Next  month  the  house  would  be  temporarily 
sub-let,  while  the  annual  tour  was  made.  Whether 
he  would  be  offered  a  re-engagement  for  Greato- 
rex's  next  production,  Oliphant  did  not  know;  he 
only  hoped.  It  was  reported  that  this  was  to  be 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 


178  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

The  photographs  and  sofa-cushions  had  not  been 
transferred  to  Victoria  Street  quite  a  week  when  he 
received  a  note  at  the  theatre  from  Otho  Fairbairn, 
apologizing  for  so  long  a  silence,  and  begging  him 
to  make  an  appointment.  They  lunched  together 
two  days  later,  and  Fairbairn  was  found  paler  and 
older-looking  than  when  Royce  had  seen  him  last. 
He  wrung  the  actor's  hand  heartily,  and  said  how 
delighted  he  had  been  to  discover  the  name  "Oli- 
phant"  in  the  Pantheon  cast. 

"I  thought  you  might  be  acting  in  town,  and  was 
going  to  read  all  the  names  'under  the  clock'  on  the 
chance.  Lo,  you  were  high  in  the  list!  You've  done 
well,  Royce!" 

''Where  have  you  been?"  asked  Oliphant. 

"I'm  a  pig — I've  made  fifty  resolutions  to  write 
to  you;  but  I — I've  been  in  a  good  deal  of  trouble, 
old  fellow;  you  must  forgive  me." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that!  May  I  know — Is  it 
private?" 

"Well,  I  was  engaged  to  be  married,"  said  Fair- 
bairn, "and  the  lady  changed  her  mind.  I've  been 
in  New  York,  you  know — she  was  an  American  girl. 
I  was  very  fond  of  her;  but  she  discovered  that  she 
liked  somebody  else  better.  It  leaves  one  rather 
raw,  that  sort  of  thing."  He  laughed  drearily. 
"She  didn't  treat  me  well,  but  my  dollars  weren't  so 
startling  on  the  other  side — lots  of  the  Americans 
have  more — it  was  a  pity  the  governor  didn't  live 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 79 

to  buy  a  title  !     .  Never  mind  about  me — 

I  want  to  hear  about  yourself.  What  have  you  been 
doing  ?" 

Oliphant  hesitated.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I — 1  have 
married." 

"No?  Is  that  a  fact?  My  warmest  congratula- 
tions!   Married!" 

"I  married  Miss  Ellerton — she  played  in  my  piece 
at  the  Dominion.  We're  living  in  Victoria  Street. 
You  must  come  and  dine  with  us;  or  lunch  with  us 
— our  dinner-hour  would  be  rather  barbaric  to  you  ! 
We  don't  do  things  in  style,  but  we  can  give  you  an 
edible  lunch — there's  a  restaurant  downstairs,  and 
they  feed  us." 

"It  must  be  devilish  jolly,"  said  the  other.  "So 
you  married  an " 

"I  married  an  actress,  yes;  and  a  very  clever 
actress." 

"The  wisest  thing  you  could  do,  of  course!  A 
wife  in  one's  own  profession  must  be  ideal.  When 
was  it?" 

"We  were  married  the  beginning  of  February. 
What  day  will  you  come? — the  sooner  the  better." 

Fairbairn  was  free  to  go  the  next  afternoon,  and 
Blanche  put  on  the  frock  that  suited  her  best  for  his 
subjugation.  She  had  learnt  the  details  of  his  offer 
to  back  Royce  in  a  theatre,  and  she  intended  that  he 
should  develop  into  a  constant  visitor  now  he  had 
returned  to  England. 


I  So  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

He  found  his  hostess  informal  and  charming; 
and  Oliphant  was  in  high  spirits,  perceiving  that  she 
had  made  a  good  impression.  Conversation  did  not 
flag,  and  soon  became  frankly  professional  in  tone; 
for  Fairbairn  was  interested  in  their  prospects,  and 
put  a  good  many  questions,  and,  although  he  now 
believed  himself  a  misogynist,  there  was  a  fascina- 
tion to  him,  an  outsider,  in  hearing  an  actress  chat- 
ter about  the  Stage.  To  Blanche  it  was  even  more 
novel  to  entertain  a  young  man  who  possessed  a 
splendid  income,  and  when  he  inadvertently  said  he 
must  have  been  "staying  at  Brookhill"  at  the  date 
some  comedy  was  produced,  and  she  discovered  that 
he  meant  the  place  of  a  peer,  she  dared  not  look 
at  him  lest  she  should  betray  the  sensation  that  the 
announcement  had  caused  her. 

He  took  his  leave  with  the  consciousness  of  having 
spent  three  hours  as  agreeable  as  misogyny  permit- 
ted, and  his  assurance  that  he  should  drop  in  upon 
them  often  was  no  less  sincere  than  the  lady's  peti- 
tion that  he  would  do  so.  She  regarded  Royce  re- 
spectfully for  being  the  friend  of  "such  a  swell";  and 
when  they  received  a  note  in  which  Fairbairn  trusted 
that  it  wasn't  too  late  to  send  a  wedding-present,  and 
they  found  that  the  present  was  silver  suitable  for 
a  prince's  dinner-party,  her  "lively  sense  of  favors 
to  come"  knew  literally  no  bounds. 

"How  much  money  does  one  need  to  take  a  the- 
atre?"  she   inquired   eagerly.      "Do   you   think  he 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  l8l 

would  be  just  as  ready  to  do  it  as  he  was?  Well, 
do  you  think  he  will  be  just  as  ready  when  you  want 
him  to — people's  ideas  change?  Why  shouldn't  you 
ask  him  now — why  not  make  use  of  him  while  he's 
here?" 

"We're  not  well  enough  known,"  said  Royce. 
"We  don't  want  to  have  a  theatre  for  three  months 
— I  want  to  open  it,  and  keep  it  open.  Besides,  it 
wouldn't  be  a  fair  proposal  in  our  present  position." 

"He  has  lots  to  lose,"  she  argued;  "it  wouldn't 
hurt  him  if  it  were  a  frost.  Which  house  should 
we  take?  Perhaps — perhaps  he'd  build  you  a  the- 
atre !  You're  very  stupid  to  take  it  so  easy,  my  boy 
— when  you  want  him,  he  may  have  cooled  off.  And 
he  may  marry — men  are  so  soft — I  daresay  he'll 
go  and  marry,  and  want  all  his  money  for  his  wife ! 
You  may  be  sure  there  are  heaps  of  women  trying 
for  him — he'll  fall  in  love  directly!" 

"He  was  engaged  in  New  York.  The  girl  broke 
it  off." 

"Broke  it  off?    The  girl  did?" 

"So  he  told  me." 

"Good  Lord!  Heaven  was  kind  to  us  to  make 
her  such  a  fool!" 

"Don't!"  said  Royce;  "I  think  he's  cut  up  about 
it." 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows  protestingly.  "I  hope  he 
understands  we  are  genuine,"  she  said,  "and  won't 
be  afraid  of  taking  us  by  surprise.     If  he  doesn't 


I  82  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

call  soon,  you  must  fix  a  day,  or  /  shall.  I  want  him 
to  be  very  much  at  home  in  this  flat,  I  can  tell  you ; 
he  means  our  future !" 

This  was  all  very  distasteful  to  Oliphant;  it  jarred 
upon  him  terribly,  but  to  say  so  would  entail  another 
altercation.  He  held  his  peace,  and  let  the  subject 
drop.  The  woman's  ardor  was  chilled  by  the  cold- 
ness of  the  reception  it  had  met  with.  She  reflected 
that  he  was  not  companionable.  How  different  he 
had  been  before  he  got  her!  She  might  have  done 
better  for  herself  even  if  Fairbairn  did  start  them 
in  a  theatre !  And  momentarily  she  felt  he  never 
would — Royce  was  so  impossible !  Now  how  nice 
the  hour  would  have  been  if  he  had  been  sympa- 
thetic, and  could  have  shared  her  enthusiasm,  and 
made  plans  with  her  for  their  advancement!  That 
would  have  been  marriage.  She  could  understand 
that  in  a  marriage  like  that  a  girl  might  be  happy 
although  she  was  not  rich.  Royce  was  only  enthusi- 
astic about  matters  that  didn't  concern  him;  what 
affair  was  it  of  his  whether  a  play  was  "literature," 
or  whether  it  wasn't,  if  the  parts  were  good,  and  it 
"caught  on"?  He  was  a  dreamer.  His  ideals  were 
very  fine,  she  supposed;  but  high  ideals  were  a  dread- 
ful strain  to  live  with !  She  did  not  ridicule  his  theo- 
ries— she  knew  that  many  dreary  subjects  were  deep 
and  admirable — but  the  proper  place  for  them  was 
Exeter  Hall,  or  the  Birbeck  Institute,  or  somewhere; 
she  could  not  pretend  to  want  them  rammed  down 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I  83 

her  throat  with  her  meals.  If  he  felt  aggrieved,  she 
couldn't  help  it — she  had  not  yawned  often,  and  he 
had  bored  her  to  death!  No,  Royce  was  unprac- 
tical— a  crank !     He  was — he  was She  tapped 

her  foot  restlessly,  and  shook  her  head  to  herself 
behind  the  Era.  She  had  blundered  with  the  wrong 
man! 

The  following  day,  however,  she  had  another  tri- 
umph.   A  Fancy  Fair  was  being  held  in  the  Botanical 

Gardens  for  the  benefit  of The  visitors  were 

not  quite  certain  what  it  was  to  benefit;  but  a  number 
of  more  or  less  prominent  actresses  had  given  their 
services,  and  a  large  contingent  of  the  Gilded  Youth 
sped  to  Regent's  Park  from  Clubland,  curious  to  see 
Miss  this  and  Miss  the  other  off  the  stage.  There 
were  several  Society  women  also,  being  charitable 
in  elaborate  toilettes,  and  it  was  possible  for  quite 
inferior  young  men  to  acquire  a  chance  to  win  a  tea- 
cozy,  or  buy  a  baby's  comforter  from  a  lady  who  had 
a  title. 

Blanche  was  assisting  at  the  "Burmah  Stall,"  cap- 
tivating in  a  frock  which  Oliphant  mentally  described 
as  "a  shower  of  lace  without  a  figure."  When  he 
joined  her  there,  he  found  her  radiant. 

uOh,"  she  exclaimed,  "I've  been  talking  to  Lady 
Fleck,  and  she  wants  to  be  introduced  to  you !  They 
say  she  knows  everybody  in  the  profession — the 
authors   and  critics   and  everyone.      She's   ever  so 


184  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

'gone'  on  you — says  you're  the  coming  man,  and  I 
don't  know  what.     There  she  is !     Come  over  now." 

Lady  Fleck  was  emerging  from  a  group  upon  the 
lawn,  smiling  vaguely.  As  she  saw  Oliphant  and 
Blanche  approaching,  her  smile  gained  expectation. 
She  was  not  pretty  and  she  was  not  young,  but  actors 
and  authors  and  musicians  found  her  charming — 
she  liked  them  so  much.  She  gave  Sunday  luncheon 
parties,  which  she  called  "Bohemian,"  and  which 
sometimes  cost  two  hundred  pounds. 

"I'm  so  delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Oliphant," 
she  said;  "I've  been  telling  your  wife  how  I've 
looked  forward  to  knowing  you  both.  Such  an  in- 
teresting couple  I've  always  thought  you — so  ro- 
mantic!" 

The  last  word  completed  his  embarrassment;  it 
was  his  earliest  experience  of  social  adulation. 
Blanche  covered  his  awkwardness  by  the  playful  as- 
sumption of  a  shyness  that  she  did  not  feel. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Lady  Fleck,"  she  cried,  hiding 
her  face  affectedly;  "you'll  make  us  so  vain  of  each 
other!" 

"But  I  must  say  it,"  declared  Lady  Fleck;  "such 
an  interesting  couple !  Oh,  your  'Faust,'  Mr.  Oli- 
phant! it  impressed  me  so  deeply.  You  revealed 
Faust  to  me.  How  you  must  have  thought" — she 
half  closed  her  eyes  to  convey  thought — "how  you 
must  have  lived  in  the  character,  to  portray  it  as 
you  do !" 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  1 85 

"I'm  glad  it  pleased  you,"  he  murmured. 

"Of  course  I'm  an  enthusiast  about  the  Stage,  I 
confess  it!  My  passion  is  the  Theatre.  When  I  see 
a  performance  like  yours,  I  want  to  thank  the  actor 
— I  want  to  go  to  him — to  tell  him  what  I  owe  him 
for  the  intellectual  and  emotional  treat  he  has  given 
me ! 

He  contrived  a  response  with  great  labor.  She 
discovered  it  to  be  "so  original,  so  suggestive " 
Blanche  felt  rather  in  the  way,  but  hesitated  to  make 
an  excuse  and  vanish,  not  knowing  whether  a  lady  in 
Society  would  consider  it  tactful  or  rude.  She  was 
relieved  when  they  were  interrupted.  Lady  Fleck 
pressed  them  to  go  to  see  her,  and  repeated  her 
"day"  twice,  with  much  warmth. 

In  the  bedroom  thaf  night  Royce  was  entreated 
to  realize  the  responsibility  that  rested  on  him. 

"You  must  make  the  most  of  this  chance,"  in- 
sisted the  girl;  "say  things  when  we  go!  If  she 
takes  us  up,  we  shall  meet  no  end  of  people.  And 
gaze  at  her  as  if  you  thought  she  was  good-looking 
— that's  more  important  than  all;  she  knows  you're 
clever  already!  I  know  what  women  are — yoiivt 
the  draw  with  Lady  Fleck,  because  you're  a  man. 
It  wouldn't  hurt" — she  raised  her  bare  foot  con- 
templatively and  admired  it,  as  she  always  did  when 
she  undressed — "it  wouldn't  hurt  if  you  made  up  to 
her  a  little.  Not  ridiculously,  because  her  husband 
mightn't  like  it,  and  then  we  shouldn't  be  asked  any 


I  86  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

more;  but  plain  women  are  so  easily  flattered,  dear 
boy — Gertrude  smirked  in  the  Zoo  when  a  monkey 
looked  after  her — you  needn't  go  far !  .  .  .  Do 
baronets'  wives  know  duchesses  ?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

If  their  marriage  had  sprung  from  love  instead 
of  from  infatuation — even  if  one  of  them  had  ever 
truly  loved  the  other — their  life  would  have  been 
very  enviable.  The  child  was  born  early  in  De- 
cember, and  at  the  end  of  February  Blanche  was 
fulfilling  another  engagement  in  town,  and  at  the 
Pantheon  Oliphant  had  won  approval  as  "Mer- 
cutio."  They  were  young,  the  man  had  had  great 
luck,  and  they  were  in  a  profession  which  pays  the 
fortunate  lavishly  while  making  small  demand  upon 
their  time.  It  is  true  that  every  day  Oliphant 
studied — shutting  himself  in  a  room  and  striving  to 
attain  the  control  over  the  muscles  of  his  face  that 
a  musician  seeks  over  his  instrument;  taking  his 
voice  note  by  note,  and  practising  with  it  as  a  singer 
practises  his  scales — but  this  was  only  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  by  no  means  during  the  entire  morning.  He 
did  not  work  for  hours  at  a  stretch  as  do  authors, 
painters,  civil  engineers,  city  clerks,  and  other  men. 
He  was  free  to  go  out  with  his  wife  whenever  she 
wished  him  to  do  so;  and  although  she  had  met  far 
fewer  titles  at  Lady  Fleck's  than  she  had  expected, 
there  were,  by  the  summer,  several  "Tuesdays"  and 
"Thursdays"  on  which  she  claimed  his  company. 

187 


I  88  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

She  did  not  disguise  that  she  was  very  ambitious 
of  extending  their  circle  of  people  worth  knowing;  by 
"people  worth  knowing"  she  already  meant  people 
in  Society.  Scheming  to  extend  it,  she  never  missed 
an  opportunity  of  being  agreeable  to  her  own  sex; 
men  only  paid  compliments,  she  realized — it  was  to 
women  she  must  look  for  the  magic  words  "I  shall 
be  so  pleased  if  you'll  come  and  see  me."  From  this 
cause  she  accepted  the  former's  attentions  with  such 
composure  that  she  was  pronounced  by  masculine 
admirers  to  be  "a  bit  cold,  don't  you  know,"  and 
gained  among  women — to  whom  she  listened  with 
an  air  of  enchained  interest — the  reputation  of  being 
devoted  to  her  husband.  To  a  "romantic  couple" 
in  the  most  popular  profession  the  entree  to  one 
house  led  to  the  drawing-room  of  another  if  tact  and 
patience  were  employed. 

Otho  Fairbairn  also  had  his  social  uses,  though  as 
a  bachelor  they  were  limited.  He  had  not  become 
quite  the  constant  visitor  that  Blanche  had  hoped  to 
see  him;  still  he  would  drop  in  upon  them  sometimes 
at  odd  hours  now,  and  she  had  made  herself  very 
sympathetic  in  a  tete-a-tete  once  on  the  subject  of  his 
misogyny.  Otho  had  found  it  a  pleasant  matter  to 
discuss  with  her.  She  had  assured  him  that  he  was 
only  temporarily  embittered,  and  prophesied  that 
some  day  he  would  come  across  a  pretty  girl  who 
would  completely  change  his  views.     He  denied  the 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  I  89 

possibility.  Between  his  heart  and  him  the  Atlantic 
rolled.  Nevertheless  the  conversation  had  a  charm, 
and  he  was  more  than  ever  of  the  opinion  that  Royce 
had  married  a  very  nice  woman. 

The  year  for  which  the  flat  had  been  obtained 
having  expired,  Oliphant  and  she  had  just  taken  one 
a  shade  more  commodious,  on  the  same  side  of  the 
street.  Since  the  advent  of  the  baby  and  a  nurse 
their  recent  quarters  had  been  rather  inconvenient. 
Now  that  the  child  was  here,  and  could  be  brought 
to  her  arms  in  white  embroidery,  and  carried  away 
if  he  cried  obstreperously,  Blanche  showed  an  in- 
terest in  the  little  being — even  in  moments  displayed 
tenderness  for  him.  He  had  been  christened  Hugh, 
the  name  that  had  been  Royce's  father's.  Oliphant, 
still  half-frightened  of  breaking  him  if  he  picked  him 
up,  loved  to  sit  and  look  at  the  mite.  He  did  not 
remember  looking  at  a  baby  before,  and  the  helpless- 
ness of  this  tiny  thing  that  was  his  son  awoke  ex- 
traordinary emotions  in  him.  If  Blanche's  tender- 
ness had  not  been  capricious,  if  her  interest  in  the 
undesired  child  had  been  more  than  a  liking,  there 
would  now  have  been  a  firm  link  between  him  and 
her. 

Excepting  during  the  few  weeks  when  he  had 
toured  the  previous  autumn  with  the  Pantheon  Com- 
pany, they  had  not  been  separated  since  their  wed- 
ding. They  had,  however,  never  played  on  the  same 
stage  since  then.     Each  had  a  nightly  world  apart 


igc 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 


from  the  other.  The  fact  to  a  well-mated  pair  might 
have  furnished  food  for  cheerful  chatter  across  the 
supper-table,  but  only  to  a  pair  very  happily  mated 
indeed.  Gossip  about  those  who  are  strangers  to 
the  listener  is  rarely  amusing,  and  it  sounds  dull  to 
the  one  who  gossips  also.  The  listener  generally 
says  the  wrong  thing,  and  the  anecdote  falls  flat. 
Oliphant  and  his  wife  rarely  touched  upon  the  in- 
cidents of  the  evening  to  each  other. 

While  Royce  remained  at  the  Pantheon  there  was 
no  prospect  of  a  joint  engagement.  Even  when  he 
was  wanted  for  a  matinee  at  the  Mirror,  he  knew 
nothing  about  it  until  the  women's  parts  were  cast. 
Blanche  had  asked  him  to  ascertain  if  there  was  a 
chance  for  her  there,  and  he  returned  with  the  news 
that  all  the  arrangements  were  made. 

"How  about  you?"  she  inquired.  "Has  Greato- 
rex  given  you  permission?" 

"Yes,  that's  all  right.  I  spoke  to  him  last  night. 
What  are  those — the  proofs  of  your  likenesses?  Let 
me  look." 

She  gave  them  to  him  one  by  one,  scrutinizing 
them  herself  across  his  shoulder.  She  had  a  passion 
for  having  her  likeness  taken,  and,  not  having  ar- 
rived at  the  point  when  photographers  wrote  offer- 
ing sittings  to  her  for  nothing,  she  spent  a  good  deal 
of  money  upon  it,  although,  of  course,  she  obtained 
the  "professional  reduction."  There  were  here 
various  presentments   of  her:    she  stood  triumph- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  191 

ant,  showing  her  bosom  and  her  teeth;  she  sat 
thinking  high  thoughts,  with  her  cheek  upon  her 
hand;  she  had  her  face  in  profile  and  her  hands  be- 
hind her  back;  and  her  hands  full  of  flowers  and 
her  face  bent.  She  laughed;  she  mused;  she  yearned 
— she  was  beautiful  in  all  of  them ;  and  her  husband's 
paramount  reflection  was  how  little  they  resembled 
her. 

"Which  do  you  think  is  best?"  she  said. 

"They're  all  exquisite;  I  don't  know.  Perhaps 
this — but  it's  so  difficult  to  say." 

"The  'soulful'  one — I  think  I  like  that  best  my- 
self. You  know  it  ought  to  sell,  that — I  do  want 
an  agent  who  would  push  me  on;  I  wish  I  could  get 
hold  of  Bernstein ! — What  do  I  look  as  if  I'm  think- 
ing about?"  She  held  the  photograph  out,  and 
viewed  it  critically.  "Now  suppose  you'd  never 
spoken  to  me — suppose  you  were  somebody  else  and 
saw  it  in  the  shop-windows — what  would  you  think 
I  was  like?" 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  Oliphant,  checking  a  sigh, 
"I  can't  imagine!" 

"Well,  you'd  be  curious  to  know  me,  wouldn't 
you?  It  would  stand  out  among  the  other  women's? 
Wouldn't  it — isn't  it  uncommon  ?  What  do  you  say  ? 
Or  do  you  think  there's  too  much  shadow  about  it? 
What  does  it  suggest — what  kind  of  girl?  I  meant 
to  look  all  aspiration  and  religion  in  this;  very 
Bible-y!  as  if  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  Heaven.     You 


, 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 


know  what  I  mean !  I  think  I  shall  have  a  dozen 
of  this,  and  a  dozen  of  the  one  in  the  low-neck, 
and  ...  I  don't  know  that  any  of  them  are 
really  very  good — I  don't  look  my  best.  The  one 
with  the  hat  on  is  a  perfect  beast!  .  .  .  No,  he 
must  give  me  another  sitting.  Don't  tell  'em  at  home 
I'm  having  any  done — I  want  to  save  the  next  lot 
for  particular  people." 

"Where's  Baby?"  asked  Oliphant.  "Is  he  out 
still?" 

"No,  it's  in  the  nursery,"  she  said,  disposing  the 
mounted  proofs  in  a  line  along  the  mantelpiece;  "do 
you  want  it  in?" 

"I  may  as  well  go  to  him  if  he's  awake." 
"It  was  awake  just  now — I  heard  it  crying." 
"Well,  I'll  go  and  say  'How  d'ye  do'  to  him  in  his 
own  domain." 

The  nurse  said  she  had  never  seen  a  gentleman 
"take  such  notice  of  his  baby"  as  Mr.  Oliphant.  He 
inquired  if  the  eyes  were  likely  to  remain  that  glori- 
ous blue;  was  despondent  when  he  heard  that  "'most 
every  baby  was  born  with  blue  eyes" ;  and  knew  re- 
stored hope  when  she  added  that,  "as  Madam's  eyes 
was  blue,  there  was  no  saying  but  what  they  might." 
It  pleased  him  to  imagine  that  the  infant  looked  at 
him  with  a  different  expression  from  that  awakened 
by  others;  and  because  he  felt  embarrassed  un- 
der the  nurse's  surveillance,  he  was  always  glad 
when  she  withdrew,  leaving  him  at  liberty  to  behave 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 


193 


as  ridiculously  as  he  pleased.  How  he  wished  that 
"Hugh"  could  talk  already,  and  that  he  could  take 
him  out,  holding  his  warm  little  hand,  and  dazzle 
him  with  toys!  How  funny  and  jolly  it  would 
be!  .  .  .  And  unless  he  had  all  his  own  feeling 
for  the  art,  he  should  never  be  an  actor.  Oh  no ! 
he  should  be  a  doctor,  or  go  to  the  Bar.  And — he 
shouldn't  take  a  wife  until  he  was  quite,  quite  sure ! 
Poor  little  Hugh — the  nurse  had  withdrawn,  and  he 
touched  the  baby's  face  with  his  own.  If  only  his 
father  could  have  lived  to  see  Hugh!  .  .  .  He 
wondered  if  he  knew  about  him  now.  It  was  an 
awful  thing,  poor  little  Hugh,  to  choose  the  wrong 
girl!  O  God  grant  the  child  would  find  nothing 
lacking  in  Blanche — how  piteous  if  he  couldn't  love 
her,  either! 

The  matinee  for  which  Oliphant's  services  had 
been  sought  was  designed  to  introduce  the  first 
dramatic  experiment  of  a  novelist  of  the  introspective 
school.  For  a  reason  that  was  not  known,  he  awaited 
the  verdict  on  his  earliest  play  with  deep  anxiety. 
When  he  had  married,  a  year  or  two  before,  his 
mother  had  been  very  indignant.  Some  mothers 
do  consider  matrimony  the  one  unpardonable  of- 
fence that  their  sons  can  commit.  The  indignation 
of  the  novelist's  mother,  however,  had  placed  him 
in  a  peculiar  predicament;  the  first  time  after  his 
marriage  that  he  drew  an  unlovable  woman,  she 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

called  on  all  their  friends,  and  said  that  "Arthur  had 
discovered  his  wife's  real  character  at  last!"  And 
when,  in  his  next  book,  he  depicted  a  totally  different 
woman's  failings,  she  exclaimed  that  "poor  Arthur 
was  finding  out  more  about  his  wife  every  day !"  As 
a  consequence  he  was  terrified  to  describe  any  woman 
who  wasn't  a  born  angel;  and  his  career  in  fiction 
seemed  over. 

He  read  a  play  as  badly  as  most  novices,  and  re- 
sembled dramatists  more  eminent  by  cherishing  the 
delusion  that  few  people  read  one  so  well.  Oliphant 
received  his  part  the  day  before  the  reading  was  to 
take  place,  and  to  a  cursory  perusal  it  looked  promis- 
ing: some  of  the  speeches  a  little  long  perhaps;  here 
and  there  a  line  that  "didn't  speak" — awkward  when 
one  came  to  utter  it;  but  the  man  seemed  alive,  he 
evidently  meant  something.  To  an  admirer  of  the 
author's  novels  the  production  of  the  drama  was  an 
interesting  experiment. 

Arthur  Mundey  was  on  the  stage,  and  made  him- 
self known,  when  Oliphant  reached  the  Mirror.  He 
said  he  was  glad  it  had  proved  possible  to  ob- 
tain Mr.  Oliphant  for  the  protagonist,  and  the 
actor  was  gratified.  Whatever  significance  the 
Public  might  attach  to  the  matinee,  it  was  to  the 
organizers  decidedly  important — the  outcome  of  a 
movement  with  which  he  was  in  cordial  sympathy. 
The  Company  had  not  all  arrived,  and  as  he  lounged 
under  the  T-piece  his   gaze  met  a   face   that  was 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 


A 


familiar,  though  he  did  not  instantaneously  remem- 
ber how  he  knew  it.  The  woman,  who  was  seated 
in  the  prompt-entrance,  had  been  looking  towards 
him  at  the  same  moment,  and  he  saw  in  her  eyes 
the  diffident  expression  of  one  who  waits  to  be 
recognized.  Now,  her  identity  flashed  upon  him,  and 
he  went  to  her  quickly.  But  her  name  escaped  him 
still;  so  extending  his  hand,  and  in  a  tone  of  pleasure 
that  was  not  feigned,  he  exclaimed : 

"How  do  you  do?    We  meet  again  at  last!" 

She  rose,  with  a  murmured  greeting.  "You  did 
not  expect  to  find  me  here,  Mr.  Oliphant?" 

"Indeed,  no;  I — I  didn't  know  who  was  in  it  at 
all.     Have  you  been  back  from  South  Africa  long?" 

"I  came  back  in  January,"  she  said.  "I  saw  you 
looking  across — I  wondered  if  you'd  recollect  me." 

"Of  course  I  recollect."  The  name  touched  his 
tongue.  "I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again,  Miss  King. 
What  are  you  playing — is  it  any  good?" 

"  'Patience  Banfield,'  "  she  said;  "it's  a  small  char- 
acter-part. You — you  have  fulfilled  my  prophecy, 
Mr.  Oliphant — may  I  congratulate  you !  I  was  at 
the  Pantheon  last  night." 

Her  manner  was  graver  than  it  had  been,  he 
fancied.  He  recalled  a  girl,  and  here  she  was  a 
woman.  How  long  ago  was  it?  Two  years — two 
years  and  a  half.  No  time !  But  what  a  change  it 
had  made  in  his  position ! — Pathetic,  as  he  stood  be- 
fore her,  that  she  had  not  risen  too.     He  paused 


., 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 


with  a  little  embarrassment.  The  questions  that  he 
would  have  asked  were  impossible,  but  he  felt  that 
he  was  appearing  formal,  even  that  the  situation 
imparted  to  him,  against  his  will,  an  air  of  patron- 
age. He  was  distinctly  relieved  when  Mundey  sat 
down  at  the  table,  and  they  had  to  listen  to  the  play. 

It  disappointed  him ;  yet  how  clever  it  was  !  though 
half  its  cleverness  was  missed  by  the  assembly  to 
whom  it  was  read.  It  was  a  novel  in  dialogue.  It 
would  have  been  admirable  under  the  library  lamp, 
but  the  flare  of  the  footlights  would  kill  it.  It  was 
delicate,  subtle,  undramatic — it  was  the  scenery 
painted  by  an  Impressionist.  A  great  regret  pos- 
sessed him  as  the  reading  went  on,  Mundey  perspir- 
ing and  growing  hoarse.  He  felt  the  pity  of  it 
that  a  fine  talent  should  be  frustrated  by  an  unskilful 
hand.  He  glanced  round  as  much  of  the  semi-circle 
as  was  within  his  view — the  listless  heads,  the  dis- 
posal of  the  limbs,  signified  nothing  but  weariness. 
Yes !  one  face  spoke  the  emotion  that  stirred  him- 
self— one  woman  understood :  Miss  King  was  think- 
ing his  own  thoughts. 

He  spoke  to  her  again  as  she  was  hastening  up  the 
steps,  after  a  few  insincere  compliments  had  been 
made  upon  the  work.  She  had  bowed,  and  vanished, 
but  he  had  overtaken  her.  That  she  should  leave 
without  saying  "Good  afternoon,"  without  approach- 
ing him,  revived  the  mental  discomfort  he  had  ex- 
perienced.    Circumstances  had  once  flung  them  into 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  1 9^ 

an  intimate,  if  short-lived,  friendship,  and  though  in 
the  interval  he  had  forgotten  all  about  her,  it  hurt 
him  to  see  that  she  felt  they  no  longer  met  upon 
terms  of  equality.  He  was  a  "leading  man,"  and  she 
remained  an  obscure  actress:  so  she  did  not  speak  to 
him  unless  she  was  addressed!  He  could  not  bear 
that — it  distressed  him  ! 

"You're  not  going  to  run  away  before  we've  said 
ten  words  to  each  other,  are  you?"  he  asked.  "How 
do  you  like  the  play?" 

"I "  she  hesitated.     "I  should  like  very  much 

to  read  it  quietly  by  myself.  Do  you  think  it  will 
succeed,  Mr.  Oliphant?" 

"My  opinion  of  it  is  the  same  as  your  own,"  he 
answered. 

"My  own!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  same  as  my 
own,  did  you  say?" 

"Yes;  I  saw  you  while  it  was  being  read." 

She  looked  surprised,  and  a  little  dismayed. 

"I  didn't  know  my  features  were  so  eloquent !" 

"You  needn't  be  alarmed!  But  shall  I  tell  you 
what  you  thought?  You  thought  what  a  good  novel 
it  would  have  made." 

"That's  true,"  she  acknowledged;  "I  did."  They 
were  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  she  stopped. 

"Am  I  in  the  way?"  inquired  Oliphant.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  say  'Good-bye'?" 

"Not  if  we're  going  the  same  road;  I  go  through 
Drury  Lane." 


* 


8  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 


"So  do  I,"  he  said,  "if  you'll  let  me.  But  it  isn't 
about  the  play  I  want  to  talk  to  you;  I  want  to  hear 
about  yourself.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  have  writ- 
ten to  me  after  you  went  to  the  Cape,  to  tell  me  how 
you  got  on.     Why  didn't  you?" 

"I  didn't  like  to,"  she  said.  "Did  it  look  un- 
grateful?" 

"'Ungrateful'?  What  on  earth  had  you  to  be 
grateful  for?  No;  but  I  should  have  been  pleased 
to  hear.     When  did  you  come  back,  did  you  say?" 

"I've  been  back  six  months.  It  was  a  very  good 
engagement,  in  a  sense — that's  to  say,  it  lasted  much 
longer  than  I  had  expected;  I  was  out  there  two 
years.  I  didn't  look  forward  to  staying  anything 
like  that  time.  I  played  in  Cape  Town  and  Kimber- 
ley  and  Johannesburg,  and  became  quite  an  Afri- 
kander." 

"Was  it  pleasant?" 

"I  don't  like  the  country.  The  Colony  and  Jo- 
hannesburg aren't  so  bad,  but  Kimberley  is  loath- 
some. It's  none  of  it  very  agreeable,  though,  after 
the  novelty  wears  off;  and,  oh,  how  dear!  One's 
salary  goes  nowhere !  After  we  left  Cape  Town  I 
used  to  pay  a  shilling  for  the  Stage — when  I  bought 
it." 

"I  suppose  that  wasn't  often?" 

She  laughed.  "There  were  weeks  when  I  missed 
it,  if  nobody  had  had  a  copy  from  Home  to  lend 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  1 99 

"And  since  you  have  been  back?" 

"I've  been  on  tour  with  A  Lilac  Chain — not  much 
of  a  company,  of  course  !  That's  what  I  meant  when 
I  said  it  was  a  good  engagement  'in  a  sense' :  the 
Cape  doesn't  lead  to  anything — I'm  just  where  I 
was  when  I  went  away.  You've  been  marvellously 
fortunate,  Mr.  Oliphant,  if  I  may  say  so." 

"Oh,  please  don't  say  'if  you  may  say' ! — why 
shouldn't  you?  Of  course  I've  been  fortunate. 
Luck's  everything!  It  was  The  Impostor  that  gave 
me  my  opportunity,  you  know;  Rayne  had  an  acci- 
dent, and  I  got  the  chance  to  play  'lead'  in  town  by 
accident.  But  for  that  I  daresay  I  shouldn't  be  any 
better  off  than  when  we  last  met.  I  suppose  you  saw 
that  The  Impostor  was  produced  soon  after  you  left 
England?" 

"Yes;  that  was  one  of  the  weeks  when  I  did  see 
a  paper — I  was  so  glad !  You  mustn't  say  luck  is 
everything,  though  !  Luck  gave  you  your  chance,  but 
you  had  the  talent  to  make  use  of  it.  I  never  thought 
when  you  told  me  the  plot  of  your  drama  that  even- 
ing, that  I  should  be  reading  a  criticism  of  it  in  Cape 
Town  two  or  three  months  later — it  seemed  so 
funny!  That  was  when  I  was  really  tempted  to 
write  to  you ;  but — oh,  I  don't  know ! — I  hadn't 
done  it  when  I  arrived;  and  so  to  write  to  you  when 
you  had  a  success  looked  as  if  it  would  be  rather 
mean.  I  thought  so  anyhow !  Oh,  there's  one  thing 
I  want  to  say — it  isn't  of  engrossing  interest,  but  I 


200  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

should  like  you  to  know :  I  sent  the  woman  in  Alfred 
Place  her  money!" 

"She  deserved  never  to  get  it,"  said  Oliphant; 
"but  of  course  you  did!  Yes,  I  hoped  for  a  line 
from  you;  and  Mrs. — er — Tubbs — oh,  Mrs.  Tubbs 
mourned  for  you !  You've  no  idea  what  an  impres- 
sion you  made  on  Mrs.  Tubbs.  She  used  to  talk 
about  you  daily." 

"I  know,"  said  Miss  King,  "so  she  tells  me.  I'm 
staying  with  her  now." 

Oliphant  wheeled  round  incredulously. 

"Really?  Do  you  mean  it?  She's  there  still,  and 
you're  staying  with  her?" 

"I  had  to  stay  somewhere,  and  I  thought  of  her 
at  once.  In  point  of  fact,"  she  added  meditatively, 
"I  don't  fancy  Mrs.  Tubbs  is  quite  so  cheap  as  she 
was!    But  she's  just  as  nice." 

"How  odd  it  seems !"  he  said.  "And  is  the  furni- 
ture still  blue?  and  is  she  still  garrulous  about  the 
niece  who  was  in  the  'perfession'  ?  Did  she  mention 
me?    She  hadn't  been  to  the  Pantheon,  I  suppose?" 

"She  hadn't  been  yet — no;  but  she  mentioned  you 
the  evening  I  arrived." 

"I  bqlieve  Mrs.  Tubbs  always  took  an  interest  in 
me,"  he  said  warmly.  "I  hope  she  wasn't  hurt  that 
I  hadn't  sent  her  'seats'?  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
never  thought  about  it." 

"I  don't  think  she  was;  indeed,  I'm  sure  she 
wasn't." 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  201 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"I  could  tell  she  wasn't  hurt." 

"She  must  have  said  something!"  he  smiled. 

"Well,"  replied  Miss  King  with  a  glimmer  of 
amusement  in  her  eyes,  "she  said  she  hadn't  heard 
of  you  since  you  left  her,  and  she  hoped  you  were 
living." 

Their  gaze  met,  and  laughter  broke  from  them 
both.  "Thank  you,"  exclaimed  Oliphant,  "I  de- 
served it !  But  this  is  Fame !  I  am  Mercutio  in 
capital  letters  on  the  Pantheon  bills,  and  my  old 
landlady  doesn't  know  it  till  you  come  from  South 
Africa  to  tell  her."  It  occurred  to  him  to  wonder 
if  Miss  King  had  heard  of  his  marriage.  "You 
haven't  congratulated  me,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  have!"  she  replied;  "in  the  theatre — the 
first  thing." 

"I  mean  about  something  else:  I'm  married 
now." 

"Married?"  she  echoed.  "Are  you?  ...  I 
don't  know  why  it  should  be  astonishing,  but " 

"It's  perfectly  true." 

"Oh,  I  congratulate  you  ever  so  much,  of  course. 
I  knew  nothing  about  it.  I  don't  meet  many  people, 
— I'm  like  Mrs.  Tubbs,  you  see.  Is  your  wife  on 
the  Stage?" 

"Yes,  I  married  Miss  Blanche  Ellerton.  We — 
we've  been  married  nearly  eighteen  months.  I'm  a 
husband  and  father;  don't  I  look  more  important?" 


202  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"I  attributed  it  to  professional  success,"  she 
laughed;  "now  it's  explained!" 

They  had  reached  New  Oxford  Street,  and  she 
paused  again,  and  extended  her  hand. 

"I  am  sure  I've  taken  you  miles  out  of  your  way," 
she  said.  "By  the  bye,  what  time  is  the  Call  to- 
morrow, did  you  notice?" 

"Twelve  o'clock.  Isn't  it  tea-time,  and  mightn't 
we  go  and  have  some  tea  ?" 

"Oh  no,  thanks,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  get  home." 

"Or  chocolate? — I  can  recommend  the  chocolate. 
We've  only  to  cross  the  road." 

"I'd  rather  not,  thank  you;  Mrs.  Tubbs  would  be 
so  wounded  if  I  didn't  want  anything  when  I  got 
in!" 

"Answer  me  one  question,"  he  exclaimed;  "do  you 
have  tea  in  the  drawing-room,  or  the  dining-room?" 

"The  drawing-room,"  said  she  gaily;  "the  blue 
drawing-room!     Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Oliphant." 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  King." 

He  retraced  his  steps  to  the  Strand,  and  mentally 
followed  hers.  "The  drawing-room" — how  vividly 
he  saw  it! — and  the  brown  tea-pot  on  the  dilapidated 
tray  hidden  by  a  soiled  serviette;  the  battered  cover 
over  the  toast!  It  had  been  pleasant! — after  all  it 
had  been  pleasant!  He  was  happy  then,  only  he 
didn't  know  it    .    .    .    happier  than  now ! 


CHAPTER  XV 

When  the  dramatic  critics  say  that  a  part  is  un- 
worthy of  an  actor's  abilities,  the  author  may  not  be 
gratified,  but  it  means  that  the  actor's  spurs  are  se- 
curely fixed.  Excepting  Oliphant,  who  gained  a  little 
kudos,  and  the  lessee,  who  was  paid  for  the  use  of 
his  theatre,  it  is  doubtful  if  Mundey's  drama  bene- 
fited anybody.  Oliphant  wondered  if  it  would  do 
Miss  King  any  good.  He  was  glad  to  see  that  sev- 
eral of  the  papers  mentioned  her  favorably,  though 
her  performance  did  not  receive  the  notices  which 
he  considered  it  deserved.  During  the  fortnight's 
rehearsals  he  had  had  several  conversations  with  her 
on  the  stage,  and  it  would  have  pleased  him  very 
much  if  the  little  part  of  "Patience  Banfield"  had 
proved  a  stepping-stone  to  higher  things. 

He  had  watched  her  rehearsals  with  a  curiosity 
that  she  did  not  divine — he  was  prepared  to  be  dis- 
appointed, to  find  her  execution  fall  short  of  her  con- 
ceptions; but  at  least  she  had  not  fallen  short  of  his. 
She  was  artistic  to  the  finger-tips,  and  her  voice  was 
delicious;  he  could  not  say  how  she  would  sustain 
such  characters  as  she  aspired  to  play,  but  he  was 

203 


204  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

persuaded  that,  given  the  opportunity,  she  would  at 
all  events  "get  on." 

Apparently  no  opportunity  presented  itself,  for 
when  he  met  her  in  Wellington  Street  one  day  about 
a  month  after  the  piece  had  been  produced,  she  told 
him  that  she  was  "going  out"  with  A  Lilac  Chain 
again.        % 

He  had  not  known  how  much  he  had  hoped  for 
her  until  he  heard  it;  indeed,  he  was  more  disap- 
pointed than  she — for,  in  her,  expectation  had  long 
grown  faint. 

"I  wish,"  he  remarked  to  Blanche,  "I  could  have 
done  something  to  help  Miss  King." 

"Why?"  she  said. 

"I  like  her,  and  she's  clever.  I'd  have  been  very 
glad  to  do  her  a  service." 

"I  didn't  think  much  of  her  at  the  Mirror.  What 
have  you  seen  her  play  in  besides  Mundey's  thing?" 

"Nothing  else.  But  she  was  admirable  in  that; 
you  must  remember  there  was  no  scope  for  big  ef- 
fects." 

"I  thought  you  were  in  the  provinces  with  her 
once.     How  did  you  know  her  then?" 

"I  knew  her  in  London,"  he  answered;  "we  stayed 
in  the  same  lodgings  for  a  week  or  two." 

Blanche  yawned,  and  he  was  relieved  that  she 
didn't  pursue  the  subject.  It  would  hardly  be  fair, 
he  thought,  to  explain  the  circumstances  which  led 
to  their  being  in  the  same  lodgings.     It  was  a  story 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  205 

that  might  be  misconstrued,  especially  by  a  woman 
like  his  wife. 

Yes,  he  was  sorry  he  had  no  influence  to  assist 
Miss  King.  He  did  like  her.  He  wished,  for  her 
sake,  that  she  were  settled  in  town,  and  he  wished 
she  were  a  friend  of  Blanche's  for  his  own.  She 
would  have  been  a  visitor  who  interested  him.  It 
would  have  been  an  agreeable,  a  stimulating  after- 
noon, when  she  called — it  would  have  taken  him  out 
of  himself  for  an  hour;  or,  more  precisely,  he  could 
have  been  himself!  Then  the  momentary  reflection 
caused  him  to  perceive  how  improbable  it  was  that 
Blanche  and  she  would  attract  each  other;  they  were 
so  unlike — he  did  not  think  two  women  could  be 
more  dissimilar.  Everything  in  Blanche  that  jarred 
upon  him  would  jar  upon  Miss  King.  .  .  .  Yes, 
that  was  a  fact !  It  hadn't  occurred  to  him  before, 
but — but  it  was  true. 

Greatorex  was  about  to  begin  his  customary  tour, 
and  on  his  return  to  the  Pantheon  the  revival  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet  would  be  resumed.  Enormously 
successful  as  this  had  been,  however,  it  could  not  con- 
tinue much  longer,  and  Oliphant  was  again  con- 
strained to  wonder  if  his  engagement  was  drawing 
to  a  close.  For  "Mercutio,"  as  for  "Faust,"  he  had 
been  engaged  only  for  the  "run  of  the  piece."  If 
he  were  offered  a  second  re-engagement,  he  might 
reasonably  expect  to  obtain  a  second  increase  of 
terms,  but  as  he  and  Blanche  were  already  living 


206  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

quite  as  luxuriously  as  he  desired,  he  was  not  eager 
for  a  higher  salary;  he  was  inclined  to  wish  he 
had  had  a  three-years'  contract  for  a  fixed  sum,  so 
that  he  could  have  felt  calmly  confident  of  remaining 
at  the  house  until  a  distant  date. 

Blanche  did  not  accompany  her  husband  on  tour. 
Last  summer  she  had  not  been  well  enough  to  do 
so,  and  now  to  undertake  a  railway  journey  every 
week  with  a  baby  and  a  nurse  would  have  been  ab- 
surd. She  had  talked  of  taking  them  to  Eastbourne 
during  his  absence,  for  she  could  not  look  forward  to 
acting  again  until  theatrical  London  woke  to  activity 
in  the  autumn. 

This  year  the  Company's  "booking"  included 
Brighton.  It  was  the  last  place  they  visited,  and  they 
arrived  after  the  August  heat  had  subsided,  and  the 
season  had  begun.  As  the  cab  rattled  Oliphant  past 
a  hoarding  on  the  way  to  his  apartments,  he  caught 
sight  of  the  title  A  Lilac  Chain  on  a  poster  of  one 
of  the  two  lesser  theatres;  and,  fresh  from  the  bill- 
sticker's  brush,  the  advertisement  was  pleasant  to 
him  on  entering  the  town.  So  Miss  King  was  here! 
He  hoped  he  would  meet  her. 

The  hope  was  fulfilled  on  the  next  morning  but 
one.  He  did  not  admit  to  himself  that  he  had  pro- 
longed his  stroll  beyond  its  usual  limit;  nevertheless 
he  was  feeling  dejected  when  they  came  face  to  face 
at  the  corner  of  Regency  Square. 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  207 

Naturally  she  was  not  surprised;  everybody  in 
Brighton  was  aware  that  Greatorex  was  at  the  Royal. 

"Of  course  you  know  you're  an  enemy?"  she  said, 
smiling.  "The  Pantheon  Company  is  ruining  our 
business  here;  if  I  weren't  a  traitress  to  my  manager, 
I  shouldn't  talk  to  you!" 

"Oh,  please  be  a  traitress,"  he  said.  "I  wondered 
if  I  should  come  across  you !  Are  you  really  doing 
badly?" 

"Well,  it's  not  one  of  the  things  one  is  supposed 
to  confess,  but  I  don't  think  we're  turning  money 
away.  Where  do  you  go  next  week?  You're  not 
against  us  again?" 

"We  go  back  to  London.    And  you  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing  so  distinguished — we've  a  dreadful 
journey  to  Plymouth.  How  is  the  baby — and  your 
wife?" 

"They're  very  well,"  he  said,  "thanks.  I  should 
like  you  to  meet  my  wife  one  day.  She's  in  town 
now,  or  I'd  ask  you  if  we  might  call  on  you.  What 
is  your  part  like  in  this?  I  looked  to  see  if  you  had 
a  Wednesday  matinee — if  you  had,  I  should  come." 

"My  part  is  very  good — it  always  is — in  the  prov- 
inces or  South  Africa,  where  it  doesn't  advance  me. 
When  I  say  'good,'  please  understand  that  I'm  speak- 
ing strictly  as  an  actress;  I  don't  mean  that  it  has 
anything  in  it:  I  mean  that  I've  situations,  and  plenty 
to  say." 


208  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"You  ask  for  too  much,"  he  answered  with  a 
smile. 

"Because  I  want  to  succeed?" 

"Oh  no;  because  you're  not  satisfied  with  situa- 
tions and  plenty  to  say." 

"That's  true,"  she  said,  "although  you  didn't  mean 
it.  I  do  ask  for  too  much — perhaps  that's  why  I  get 
so  little.     It's  hard,  though,  when  you  feel  yourself 

capable  of Oh,  how  terrible  that  sounds !     I 

don't  think  I'm  a  vain  woman,  but  if  I'd  gone  on 
then,  I  should  have  horrified  you." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  think  you  would.  If 
I  were  a  dramatist  I  should  want  you  in  my  cast.  I 
don't  know  what  you'd  be  like  as  'Lady  Mac- 
beth'  " 

"/  know,"  she  said;  "I  should  be  shocking." 

"But  I  can  see  you  in  some  parts !  If  Mundey  had 
been  a  personage  in  the  Theatre,  even  'Patience' 
would  have  proved  useful  to  you :  he  thought  you 
excellent.  It  was  your  misfortune  that  you  were  in 
a  piece  by  a  man  who  may  never  write  another." 

She  did  not  make  it  easy  for  him  to  turn  beside 
her,  and  after  a  few  more  seconds  he  took  his  leave. 
He  trusted,  however,  that  the  morrow  would  be  fine ; 
and  it  was. 

He  chose  the  King's  Road  again,  but  it  proved  a 
disappointment.  A  board  which  proclaimed  at  the 
entrance  that  the  "band  was  now  playing"  suggested 
that  she  might  be  met  on  the  pier,  but  here  also  he 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  200, 

failed;  and,  discarding  the  shops  as  improbable,  since 
she  was  only  in  a  watering-place  for  a  week,  he 
sauntered  next  along  the  sea-wall. 

It  was  on  the  sea-wall,  on  a  bench  with  a  book, 
that  he  discovered  her,  and  now  their  conversation 
was  wider,  more  inspiriting.  This  was  on  Wednes- 
day; and  on  Thursday  he  reached  the  sea-wall 
earlier. 

In  conversation  the  added  gravity  in  her  de- 
meanor that  had  struck  him  when  he  saw  her  on  the 
Mirror  stage,  often  fell  from  her.  Her  enthusiasm 
for  something  beautiful  would  brighten  her  face,  and 
the  man's  mood.  She  understood  so  quickly — and 
she  was  so  well  worth  understanding.  Their  ideas 
were  not  always  the  same,  but  it  was  an  unfamiliar 
joy  to  him  to  find  himself  uttering  his  thoughts  with- 
out the  sharp  fear  of  their  exciting  ridicule  acting  as 
a  mental  brake.  Even  when  Miss  King  took  a  dif- 
ferent view  from  his,  they  thought  so  much  alike 
essentially,  that  their  arguments,  like  the  sides  of  a 
triangle,  always  met  at  the  apex,  and  their  point  was 
one  after  all. 

On  Friday  she  was  not  there.  But  when  he  once 
more  tried  the  pier,  he  descried  her  among  a  group 
that  watched  the  departure  of  the  Worthing  boat. 

As  he  recognized  her  attraction,  it  was  noetic  and 
no  more.  If  he  had  been  told  that  in  seeking  her  so 
he  was  committing  an  indiscretion,  he  would  have 
laughed  at  the  statement,  and  quite  honestly.    It  was 


) 


2IO  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

she  who  realized  that  for  them  to  spend  the  morning 
together  every  day  was  inadvisable,  though  her  rea- 
son was  merely  that  his  wife  might  not  like  it.  How- 
ever, now  that  he  was  here,  it  would  have  been  self- 
conscious  to  hurry  away,  and  he  appealed  to  her  suf- 
ficiently for  her  restraint  to  vanish  ten  minutes  after 
they  sat  down. 

He  had  appealed  to  her  always,  and  in  the  Cape 
she  had  often  looked  back  on  their  acquaintance. 
No  doubt  it  remained  fresh  in  her  memory  chiefly  be- 
cause it  had  been  attributable  to  an  occurrence  which 
no  woman  could  ever  forget;  but  the  man's  person- 
ality had  had  something  to  do  with  the  fact  as  well. 
In  retrospection,  moreover,  she  perceived  much  that 
she  had  ignored,  or  taken  for  granted,  at  the  time, 
and  she  told  herself  that  there  were  few  men  who 
would  have  proved  so  chivalrous  to  a  girl  under  such 
conditions.  It  was  natural  that  these  should  appear 
more  appalling  to  her  on  every  occasion  that  she 
dwelt  upon  them ;  and  the  more  she  shuddered  at  the 
danger  she  had  run,  the  more  exaggerated  was  the 
tribute  that  she  paid  to  her  companion's  loyalty. 

"What  train  do  you  go  by  on  Sunday?"  she  asked. 
"How  glad  you  must  be  that  you'll  soon  be  home." 

"We  go  in  the  morning,"  he  replied;  "I  don't 
know  by  which  train.  Oh  yes,  of  course,  it  will  be 
very  nice  to  be  at  home."  He  felt  that  his  tone  had 
had  less  warmth  than  he  had  tried  to  throw  into  it, 
and  so  did  she;  it  was  a  surprise,  and  something  of 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  211 

a  shock  to  her.  He  added  quickly:  "Fortunately, 
my  wife  isn't  playing  now,  or  I  should  find  the  even- 
ings rather  dull  till  we  reopen." 

"Isn't  it  wonderful  to  you  sometimes, "  said  Miss 
King,  "to  reflect  that  you're  'Mercutio'  at  the  Pan- 
theon?" 

"Don't  think  I'm  ungrateful;  but  it  isn't,  any 
longer.  I  only  wonder  that  I  don't  find  it  wonder- 
ful." 

"But  that's  pathetic,"  she  said;  "I  shouldn't  like 
that!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  pleasure  of  suc- 
cess is  so  very  fleeting,  that  you,  who  not  three  years 
ago  were — may  I  say  it? — who  not  three  years  ago 
were  quite  unknown  in  London,  and  spoke  of  pawn- 
ing your  watch,  are  blase  already?" 

"I  did  pawn  it!"  said  Oliphant.  "I  don't  like  the 
word  blase;  it  always  sounds  a  pose  to  me,  but  it's 
true  that  I  haven't  the  thrill,  the  ecstasy  that  I  always 
imagined  I  should  have,  presuming  I  ever  got  so  far. 
You  were  stage-struck  before  you  went  into  the  pro- 
fession, of  course?" 

"Violently,"  she  said;  "I  used  to  tremble  at  the 
sight  of  a  playbill.     Why?" 

"Well,  after  you  had  been  acting  a  year,  didn't 
you  ever  stand  on  a  stage  just  before  the  curtain  went 
up,  dismayed  to  find  yourself  so  cool?  Didn't  you 
ever  think:  'I  am  an  actress;  I  am  standing  here  on 
a  real  stage,  behind  a  real  curtain,  and  there's  a  real 
audience  on  the  other  side  of  it  who'll  hear  me  speak 


212  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

my  six  lines  in  a  minute  or  two!'  Didn't  you  try  to 
work  yourself  into  the  state  of  tremor  which  you 
were  astonished  that  you  didn't  feel?" 

She  nodded.  "Often!  It's  odd  you  should  have 
said  that!    It's  just  what  I  did  do." 

"Well,  it's  precisely  the  same  when  one  gets  fur- 
ther.    I  say,  'How  rapturous  I  ought  to  be !'  " 

"It's  not  a  fair  comparison,"  she  said  earnestly; 
"that's  wrong,  it's  wicked  of  you !  Do  you  know 
what  that  will  mean  if  you  aren't  careful? — it  will 
mean  that  you'll  lose  your  ambition.  Don't  do  that. 
You  won't — because  we  both  love  the  Stage,  and  it 
needs  ideals — you  won't  be  false  to  that  Dream  of 
yours?" 

"Why,"  he  cried,  "didn't  we  talk  of  it  yesterday? 
You  forget!" 

"I  missed  something  yesterday,"  she  said;  "I  don't 
forget.  I  remember  how  you  talked  that  day  out- 
side the  Museum,  and  you  didn't  sound  quite  so  fer- 
vid yesterday." 

Oliphant  sighed.  He  had  not  married  Blanche 
when  he  dreamed  outside  the  Museum.  Dulling  his 
aspiration  now  was  the  vague  consciousness  that  he 
was  picturing  a  future  which  his  wife  would  de- 
preciate were  it  gained. 

"I  am  as  fervid  in  my  heart,"  he  said,  "God 
knows.  In  my  heart  the  Stage  is  as  dear  to  me,  my 
aims  are  as  high,  as  before  you  and  I  ever  met — *. 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  213 

as  high  as  when  I  was  at  the  'Varsity  seeing  visions, 
and  worshipping  a  Stage  that  doesn't  live." 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said.  "I'm  nobody;  and  when 
your  theatre  exists  I  shall  be  too  old  to  begin  to  make 
a  reputation  in  London,  and  too  sad  to  go  there  only 
to  make  a  living.  But  all  for  our  Stage,  and  not  for 
myself,  I  should  like  to  see  you,  who  have  the  talent 
and  the  chance,  keep  brave  enough  to  make  your 
dream  come  true.  Remember  that  a  man  is  young 
as  long  as  he  retains  his  enthusiasm;  you  have  such 
time  in  front  of  you — use  it  for  all  it's  worth !  Your 
opportunities  are  so  splendid — don't  waste  them ! 
Accomplish,  Mr.  Oliphant!  Think  what  you've 
done,  and  strain  every  nerve  till  you've  done  all  you 
meant  to  do." 

The  wretched  band  had  finished,  and  the  crowd 
was  streaming  towards  the  turnstiles.  Miss  King 
rose,  and  he  sauntered  beside  her  to  the  Parade. 
Here  they  were  about  to  separate,  for  their  lodgings 
lay  in  opposite  directions,  but  as  they  loitered  to  a 
standstill  Oliphant  was  greeted  by  the  actor  who 
sustained  the  part  of  "Friar  Laurence."  The 
"Friar"  told  him  that  a  telegram  was  lying  at  the 
theatre  for  him,  and  having  dropped  the  informa- 
tion, continued  his  way,  which  was  to  the  Bodega. 
When  Oliphant  rejoined  her  after  the  momentary 
colloquy,  Alma  saw  that  his  face  had  turned  pale. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"He  says  there's  a  wire  for  me  at  the  theatre;  it 


214  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

can  only  be  from  home.  I'm  afraid  the  baby  may 
be  ill." 

"Oh,"  she  faltered,  "why  imagine  such  a  thing?" 
She  looked  away,  with  a  pang  at  her  heart — she  had 
now  learned  almost  as  much  of  his  married  life  as 
he  could  have  told  her. 

"The  Royal  is  on  your  road,  isn't  it?  Do  you 
mind  driving?"  He  hailed  an  open  "fly"  at  the  same 
moment,  and  she  got  in. 

"You're  very  foolish  to  be  frightened,"  she  said, 
as  he  took  his  seat;  "surely  there  may  be  a  dozen 
reasons  why  your  wife  should  wire  you?  Mightn't 
it  be  business?" 

"I  daresay — I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it's  foolish, 
but  she  has  never  wired  me  before;  it  was  the  first 
thing  I  thought  of."  It  was  only  now  that  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  it  might  be  Blanche  who  was  ill. 
"Of  course  she  may  be  ill  herself,"  he  muttered. 
"Or — or  it  may  be  nothing  at  all." 

She  saw  that  the  kindest  thing  she  could  do  was 
to  be  silent;  and  they  did  not  speak  until  the  stage- 
entrance  was  reached. 

"Don't  stop  inside !"  she  said. 

The  door  swung  to  behind  him,  and  she  sat  watch- 
ing it. 

Oliphant  tore  the  telegram  open  in  the  passage. 
There  was  no  shock,  only  a  confirmation  of  his 
groundless  terror.  The  message  ran:  "Baby  ill;  I 
think  you  ought  to  come  up  quickly."     He  put  his 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  21  5 

hand  over  his  eyes.  "Quickly?"  But  he  must  play 
"Mercutio"  first!  And  meanwhile  the  child  might 
die. 

He  walked  back  to  the  cab,  and  held  the  telegram 
out.  He  did  not  look  at  her  as  she  read  it — he  was 
looking  at  nothing  up  the  street.  The  pause  in  which 
her  sympathy  sought  for  words  seemed  to  the  woman 
to  last  a  long  time. 

"Is  it  strange  for  a  man  to  care  so  much  for  a  little 
baby?"  he  asked  huskily. 

"What  can  I  say  to  you?"  she  murmured,  in  a 
voice  that  expressed  everything.  "You  can  be  there 
to-night?  Oh,  of  course — 'Mercutio'  has  'done'  so 
early!    What  train  can  you  catch?" 

"I  don't  know — I  must  find  out.  Don't  trouble- 
it's  awfully  good  of  you,  but I'm  very  fond 

of  him,  you  see,  and  of  course  I'm  worried.  I'll 
go  and  look  at  a  time-table." 

"It  mayn't  be  so  serious  as  your  wife  thinks. 
She'd  naturally  be  alarmed,  and  fear  the  worst! 
When  you  get  home,  you  may  find  him  out  of  dan- 
ger." But  she  had  noticed  that  the  telegram  had 
been  despatched  at  seven  in  the  morning,  and  she  felt 
what  this  delay  that  he  had  to  bear  must  be  to  him. 

"I  daresay,"  he  said;  "yes — thanks.  Where  shall 
I  tell  the  man  to  drive?  No,  why  get  out?  What 
street  did  you  say  you  were  in?" 

She  steadied  her  lip  between  her  teeth  for  an  in- 
stant.   "Dome  Street,"  she  said;  "number  six.    Will 


2l6  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

you — Mr.  Oliphant,  will  you  let  me  know  when  you 
come  back?    Hope  for  the  best!" 

They  had  spoken  their  adieus;  he  had  paid  the 
cabman,  and  was  turning  away  when  she  called  to 
him  eagerly. 

"Come  in,"  she  cried,  "come  in,  and  drive  to  the 
station !  Perhaps  you  can  get  home  and  back  before 
the  piece  begins !" 

He  had  not  thought  of  that.  The  suggestion,  the 
vague  chance,  quickened  his  nerves.  The  "fly" 
rocked  as  they  raced  up  the  hill. 

They  learnt  that  the  best  train  left  at  2,  and  was 
due  at  Victoria  at  3.40.  He  might  be  at  home  before 
4;  the  doubt  was  whether  he  could  return  in  time. 
But  they  had  ten  minutes  for  consultation,  and  they 
found  that  allowing  him  an  hour  in  the  flat,  it  was 
possible;  there  was  a  train  from  Victoria  at  5.2  which 
reached  Brighton  at  7. 

"You'll  soon  be  with  him  now,"  she  said  at  the 
window  of  the  compartment.  "Don't  worry  more 
than  you  can  help!" 

Her  earnest  face  upon  the  platform  was  the  last 
thing  that  impressed  him  vividly  until  he  saw  his 
wife's. 

There  was  no  need  to  frame  the  question.  The 
answer  was  in  the  air.     He  knew  the  child  was  dead. 

Blanche's  eyes  were  swollen,  and  her  fringe  was 
moist  with  Eau  de  Cologne.  Her  hands  hung  list- 
lessly at  her  sides.     At  the  sight  of  him  she  burst 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  217 

into  tears,  and  he  took  her  in  his  arms.  Neither 
had  spoken  yet.    She  spoke  first. 

"He  died  at  ten  o'clock,"  she  said. 

Oliphant  released  her,  and  crossed  the  floor  quite 
aimlessly.  He  stared  down  at  the  traffic  for  a 
minute,  and  retraced  his  steps. 

"What  time  did  he — die?"  he  asked. 

"At  ten  o'clock,"  she  repeated.  "We  thought  it 
was  only  a  cold — with  his  teeth;  and  then  the  doctor 
said  it  was  pneumonia.  He  was  a  very  good  doctor. 
Mother  was  here  too — she's  just  gone  out;  she'll  be 
back  presently.  Oh,  my  little  angel  in  Heaven !  I've 
cried  myself  ill!" 

"Where?"  said  Oliphant,  after  another  silence. 

"In  the  nursery,"  she  replied. 

The  word  made  him  wince.  He  went  to  the  room 
slowly,  and  crept  forward  as  if  the  child  had  slept. 
The  curtains  of  the  cot  were  drawn.  He  parted 
them,  and  looked.  He  had  left  the  door  open:  he 
went  back  and  shut  it;  and  sat  down. 

The  woman  wandered  about  the  drawing-room. 
Her  head  ached  badly,  and  she  reflected  that  it  was 
fortunate  "Mother"  was  available  "to  see  to  things," 
for  she  could  never  have  done  it  herself:  she  was 
too  highly  strung.  It  seemed  thankless  to  perceive 
the  fact — and  she  wouldn't  for  the  world  hurt 
Mother's  feelings  by  hinting  it— but  to  be  able  to 
attend  to  such  matters  implied  a  certain  callous- 
ness.    .     .     .     Her  little  angel  in  Heaven!     She 


2l8  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

gazed  at  the  sky  from  the  window  where  Oliphant 
had  stared  at  the  omnibuses.  Her  "precious"  was 
with  God!  The  possibility  of  a  future  state  was  a 
subject  to  which  normally  she  never  gave  a  thought, 
but  now  an  unconscious  remembrance  of  a  Trans- 
formation Scene  soothed  her  pain.     .    .     . 

Royce  was  a  long  while  in  there !  He  would  be 
frightfully  grieved  of  course — he  had  been  so  fond 
of  Baby.  What  she  really  needed  was  to  be  with 
someone  who  hadn't  loved  the  mite;  she  was  so 
miserable  that  she  wanted  brightening  up !  She  re- 
quired to  be  taken  away  somewhere,  and  made  to 
forget;  she  ought  to  be  compelled  to  gather  a  little 
amusement.    .     .     . 

Jay's !     .     .     .     Crape  for  an  infant  would  be  too 

much.     In  black,  as  she  had  fair  hair How 

horrid  it  was  to  be  obliged  to  think  of  such  things ! 
Ah,  but  how  passionately  she  suffered  in  her  heart 
— nobody  could  understand !  Still  people  would  pity 
her,  and  talk.  Even  the  Public  would  speak  of  her 
loss  sympathetically:  "That  poor  Blanche  Ellerton!" 
If  the  Era  and  the  Stage  commented  on  it,  no  doubt 
a  few  of  the  other  papers  would  say  something  too. 
What  day  was  it?  Friday.  (Oh,  the  unlucky  day! 
her  Darling  had  died  on  a  Friday!)  The  Era  came 
out  to-morrow — they  wouldn't  know  so  soon.  Un- 
less. .  .  .  Perhaps  if  the  news  were  "expressed" 
to  the  office  at  once -? 

Oliphant  replaced  the  curtains  gently.    He  fancied 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  219 

it  must  be  nearly  half  an  hour  since  he  entered  the 
room;  he  had  forgotten  Blanche,  and  before  he  left 
he  must  try  to  comfort  her.  Poor  girl,  how  red  her 
eyes  were ! 

She  rose  and  went  to  him  quickly  as  he  returned, 
and  he  held  her  close  again. 

"Doesn't  he  look  sweet?"  she  whispered. 

He  found  nothing  to  say  in  response  to  this. 

"I  shall  be  home  on  Sunday,  you  know,  for  good," 
he  said,  since  speech  was  essential. 

She  nodded.     "When  is  your  train  back?" 

"At  five."  He  glanced  at  his  watch — the  time 
had  gone  more  rapidly  than  he  had  supposed. 
"Your  mother  will  stop  with  you,  won't  she?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Have  you  had  anything  to  eat? 
Will  you  have  something  now?" 

"I'm  not  hungry;  no,  thanks,  dear." 

"You'd  better  have  a  drink,"  she  said,  turning  to 
a  syphon  and  a  spirit-flask.  "I've  just  had  some 
brandy  for  my  head.  You  ought  to  have  something 
or  other  before  the  show !" 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  she  had  vacated  by  the 
table.  A  letter,  not  folded  yet,  lay  against  his  hand, 
and  he  drummed  his  fingers  on  it  while  she  poured 
the  brandy.  He  pushed  it  to  and  fro.  He  began 
to  read  it — mechanically,  with  no  interest  in  the  let- 
ter. Its  sense  did  not  penetrate  his  stupor  all  at 
once :  "I  should  be  so  grateful  if  you  could  find  space 
to  mention.     .     .     .     My  little  baby  died  this  morn- 


220  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

ing."    What  was  that?    "I  should  be  so  grateful  if 

you  could  find  space "     O  God!     The  meaning 

rushed  upon  him,  and  turned  him  cold  and  sick.  She 
could  seek  an  advertisement  from  her  child's  death! 

The  soda-water  spurted  noisily.  It  was  the  only 
sound  in  the  room  for  several  seconds.  He  sat  mo- 
tionless, his  gaze  riveted  on  her  handwriting;  and 
Blanche,  holding  the  glass,  stood  watching  him.  She 
was  chagrined  to  find  him  reading  the  note — he  might 
misconstrue  it  and  think  her  unfeeling!  Was  he 
going  to  reproach  her? 

He  was  questioning  what  he  should  say.  That 
she  revolted  him?  He  could  tell  her  no  less  if  he 
spoke  of  it  at  all.  He  might  destroy  the  note,  forbid 
its  being  sent.  She  would  defend  herself,  perhaps 
have  hysterics;  and  he  was  too  heart-sick  to  remon- 
strate and  discuss  and  upbraid.  To  what  end  all 
that?  She  was  as  she  was;  a  painful  scene  wouldn't 
regenerate  her!     But  was  she  human? 

He  got  up,  and  she  met  him  with  the  glass  diffi- 
dently. 

"You're  going  to  have  your  drink,  aren't  you?" 
she  asked. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  one,  thank  you.  I 
must  go,  or  I  shall  miss  the  train.  Where's  my 
hat?    .    .    .    Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  darling,"  she  said. 

He  would  not,  he  could  not,  touch  her  face;  he 
dropped  the  sound  of  a  kiss  upon  her  hair.    She  had 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  221 

put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  he  thanked  Heaven 
when  he  was  free  of  them. 

To  act  at  night  was  a  restorative;  it  was  the  after- 
wards, sitting  alone  in  his  apartments,  that  was  ter- 
rible. And  more  terrible  still  was  the  thought  that 
he  must  so  soon  sit  with  her  at  home.  Home?  The 
place  where  she  had  trampled  on  the  dead!  Now 
that  the  child  was  gone,  what  did  it  hold  ?  His  child, 
even  more  his  hopes  for  his  child,  had  leavened  the 
bitterness  of  his  blunder;  but  the  pictures  he  had  seen 
of  Hugh  at  three  and  Hugh  at  seven,  of  Hugh  head 
boy  at  Harrow,  could  never  be  looked  at  again. 
They  must  be  put  away — his  pictures  and  the  Baby's 

all  together.     And  she  could And  she  was  his 

wife !  The  woman  who  could  do  this  thing  was  his 
wife!  Why  should  such  women  bear  children? 
Well,  she  had  known  herself;  she  had  done  her  best 
to  prevent  it ! 

He  remembered  that  Miss  King  was  waiting  to 
hear  from  him — he  would  go  in  the  morning.  She 
had  told  him  her  address,  and  begged  him  to  let  her 
know.  The  number  had  escaped  him,  but  she  was 
staying  in  Dome  Street.     Was  it  six? 

He  went  at  half-past  ten,  before  she  was  likely  to 
be  out.  The  alternative  of  seeking  her  among  the 
crowd  on  the  front  jarred  upon  him  to-day,  and  in 
the  afternoon  she  would  be  playing  at  the  theatre. 

The  landlady  ushered  him  without  inquiry  into  a 
small  parlor.    Alma  was  kneeling  before  a  theatrical 


2  22  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

hamper,  completing  her  packing.  She  lifted  her- 
self slowly,  and  advanced  with  her  gaze  fixed  upon 
his  face. 

"He  is  dead,"  said  Oliphant. 

She  put  out  her  hand,  and  he  held  it  tightly,  de- 
riving comfort  from  her  touch. 

"Sit  down,"  she  murmured,  moving  to  the  hearth. 
"I  feared — I  was  afraid  it  meant  that,  when  no  mes- 
sage came  last  night.  .  .  .  You  know  what  I  want 
to  ask  you." 

"I  was  too  late,"  he  answered. 

They  sat  opposite  each  other  without  speaking. 
The  misery  in  his  eyes  made  her  heart  ache. 

"You're  packing  early,"  said  Oliphant  at  last  by 
an  obvious  effort. 

"Yes;  we've  a  matinee,  you  know,  and  the  lorrie 
will  be  here  this  afternoon.  We  leave  at  seven 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

"Where  do  you  go? — to  Plymouth,  isn't  it?  And 
then?    How  long  does  the  tour  last?" 

"I  think  we're  booked  up  to  the  last  week  in  De- 
cember. Don't  make  small  talk,  Mr.  Oliphant, 
please!     I  don't  want  to." 

"I  didn't  come  to  depress  you — perhaps  it  was 
rather  cowardly  of  me  to  come  at  all;  I  might  have 
sent  you  word." 

"It  was  kinder  to  come,"  she  said.  "I  don't  like 
to  ask  you  questions,  but  if  you  can  speak  of  him  to 
me,  although  I  never  saw  him,  I  shall  be  glad." 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  223 

"It's  all  here!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  gesture  of 
pain. 

"Ah,  I  know!  But  it  will  go — the  worst.  The 
memory  won't  go,  but  it  gets  tenderer.  You'll  love 
to  think  of  him  by  and  bye." 

"It  seems  so  motiveless,  a  little  child  like  that! 
He  was — if  you  had  seen  him  you  would  under- 
stand. Of  course  everybody  thinks  his  own  child 
best,  but  he — he  had  ways.  Why  should  he  be  born 
only  to  be  snatched  from  me  again?  I  wanted  him 
so  much !  .  .  .  You  believe — do  you  believe — 
in  Heaven?" 

"Yes.  I'm  so  simple  a  woman  that  I've  never 
questioned  it.  When  I  lost  my  mother,  my  only 
comfort  was  that  I  wasn't  clever  and  full  of  doubts. 
Are  you  so  clever  that  you're  hopeless  now?" 

"No;  I  believe,"  he  said.  "I  haven't  the  imagina- 
tion to  conceive  that  Heaven's  a  myth." 

"I  suppose  that  each  of  us  has  a  different  notion 
of  Heaven,  just  as  all  the  notions  are  wrong;  but  I 
only  think  of  it  as  a  place  where  people  who've  loved 
are  given  back  to  one  another,  and  need  never  fear 
parting  any  more.  I  don't  see  how  mine  can  be  very 
wrong.  And  I  think  we  shall  look  just  the  same  to 
them,  although  we  may  have  grown  old  since  we  lost 
them,  as  we  did  the  day  they  died.  I  think  I  shall 
still  look  a  girl  to  my  mother  if  I  live  to  be  eighty." 
She  gave  a  half  smile.  "If  I  am  good  enough  to  go 
to  Heaven!" 


224  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"And  they  to  us?"  he  asked.  "Should  /  find  a 
baby  in  fifty  years?" 

"I  think  you  would  see  a  little  baby,"  she  replied. 
"Just  the  little  baby  you  had  kissed  and  remembered ! 
But  you  should  be  able  to  give  ideas  to  me — you 
were  going  to  be  a  clergyman." 

"You,"  said  Oliphant,  "are  a  good  woman;  a 
good  woman  can  teach  us  all."  He  had  not  men- 
tioned his  wife's  name,  and  the  reservation  by  which 
he  imagined  that  half  his  sorrow  had  been  concealed 
was  doubling  Alma's  compassion  for  him. 

He  was  loath  to  take  his  leave,  and  even  when  he 
had  risen  to  do  so,  they  lingered  in  further  converse 
by  the  window. 

"I'm  glad  I  came,"  he  said  at  last;  "you've  been 
very  kind  to  me.  I  wish  we  hadn't  matinees,  or  that 
you  didn't  start  so  early  to-morrow.  Now  I'll  let 
you  finish  your  packing."  He  looked  round  the 
humble  room  bright  with  the  morning  sunshine. 
"Are  those  books  yours?"  he  inquired;  "are  they  to 
go  in  too?"  He  went  to  the  chair  where  they  lay, 
and  brought  them  to  her,  and  stood  beside  her  while 
she  put  them  in  the  basket.     "Good-bye,  Miss  King." 

"Good-bye,"  she  said.  "And  think  of  your  Art 
and  your  hopes,  and  make  us  all  proud  of  you  !" 

"I  wonder  when  I  shall  meet  you  again?  You 
and  I  are  always  being  good  friends  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  losing  sight  of  each  other,  aren't  we?" 

The  firmness  of  her  hand-clasp  seemed  to  lend 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  225 

him  strength,  as  It  had  given  him  comfort  when  he 
entered.    Yes,  his  Art  remained  ! 

Alma  went  back  to  the  window,  and  watched  him 
till  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

He  did  not  return  to  town  until  the  morning  of 
the  funeral.  In  the  afternoon  the  cot  and  the  toys, 
all  the  belongings  of  the  dead  baby,  were  removed 
from  the  nursery.  The  room  was  now  Oliphant's; 
it  was  here  that  he  studied  and  he  slept. 

There  had  been  no  open  rupture,  for  Blanche  had 
refrained  from  asking  his  reason:  she  knew  it,  and 
affected  to  attribute  the  expression  of  his  wish  to 
morbid  grief.  She  considered  that  he  was  suffering 
from  a  temporary  derangement  of  the  intellect,  and 
the  time  to  show  her  resentment  would  be  when  he 
came  to  his  senses. 

But  to  a  man  of  Oliphant's  temperament  no  other 
course  was  possible  if  they  were  to  remain  under  one 
roof.  When  he  reflected  that  within  six  hours  of 
their  child's  death  she  could  do  what  she  had  done, 
she  appeared  to  him  a  monstrosity.  Every  nerve 
in  him  shrank  from  the  suggestion  of  contact  with 
her.  He  felt  that  to  take  this  abnormal  creature 
in  his  arms  as  a  wife  would  be  a  horrible  action — 
an  offence  after  which  he  would  be  degraded,  and 
repulsive  to  himself. 

Holding  his  cause  the  slightest,  and  yet  afraid  of 
226 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  227 

discussing  it,  Blanche's  disguise  was  at  first  painfully 
thin,  her  amiability  was  an  obvious  bravado.  But 
as  the  weeks  went  by,  the  influence  of  custom  softened 
the  asperities  of  the  anomalous  relationship.  Both 
were  in  engagements :  Oliphant  still  at  the  Pantheon 
— where  Romeo  and  Juliet  had  been  succeeded  by  a 
revival  of  Much  Ado  About  Nothing — and  the 
woman  deriving  consolation  from  a  "hit"  at  the  Pall 
Mall.  With  months  they  acquired  a  manner  nearly 
as  free  as  that  which  had  subsisted  between  them  be- 
fore the  baby  died.  Oliphant  could  sit  in  a  room 
with  her  without  shuddering;  and  if  a  prolonged 
tete-a-tete  distressed  him  still,  this  had  its  compensa- 
tion to  her  in  the  fact  that  it  made  him  readier  to 
accept  the  invitations  of  "people  worth  knowing" 
— a  circle  which,  thanks  to  her  assiduity  and  his  pro- 
fessional successes,  was  gradually  widening  to  the 
"romantic  couple." 

By  the  time  the  season  had  well  advanced,  the 
circle  had  supplied  a  counter-irritant  to  her  original 
complaint.  People,  otherwise  well-bred,  put  ques- 
tions to  artists  about  their  prospects  and  their  in- 
comes with  an  effrontery  they  would  never  dream  of 
displaying  towards  those  in  business,  and  gushing 
matrons  sometimes  asked  her  when  she  and  her 
clever,  delightful  husband  were  going  to  have  a  the- 
atre of  their  own.  This  unconscious  impertinence 
galled  her,  because  if  Royce  had  not  been  a  noodle — 


2  28  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

that  was  how  she  mentally  expressed  it — they  might 
have  had  their  own  theatre  already.  She  craved  for 
her  own  theatre  and  the  attendant  importance. 
When  she  mentioned  the  subject  to  him  he  was  as 
unsatisfactory  as  ever,  and  there  were  moments  of 
solitude  in  which  she  raged,  and  demanded  of  the 
irresponsive  walls  what  marriage  with  such  a  vision- 
ary had  given  to  her. 

She  determined  to  put  Otho  Fairbairn's  friendship 
to  the  test  herself;  and  one  afternoon,  when  she  was 
at  home  alone,  he  was  announced.  She  prayed  that 
no  one  else  would  call. 

"Royce  is  out,"  she  murmured;  "but  I  daresay 
he'll  be  back  soon.     Put  your  hat  down." 

"You  look  tired,"  he  said  with  concern. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  laughed  con- 
strainedly: "Oh  no!    What  is  the  news?" 

"With  me?  Do  I  ever  have  news?  I  came  to 
hear  news — to  be  entertained.  Behold  the  selfish- 
ness of  man  and  the  abuse  of  hospitality!" 

"I  don't  think  you  ever  find  us  very  entertaining, 
do  you?"  she  said.  "I  was  beginning  to  think  you 
found  us  so  dull  that  you  weren't  coming  any  more. 
How  long  is  it  since  you've  been  here — three 
months?" 

"Mrs.  Royce !"  He  had  begged  leave  to  call  her 
"Mrs.  Royce,"  saying  "the  other  sounded  so  awfully 
formal";  and  when  she  had  lisped  "Otho  formal!" 
permission  was  accorded. 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  229 

"Three  months,  isn't  it?"  she  said;  "or  is  it  four? 
We  were  asking  each  other  what  we  had  done  I" 

"Mrs.  Royce!  It's  not  two!  And  I've  been 
away.  You  aren't  offended  with  me  really,  are 
you?" 

Until  now  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  she  might 
be;  she  had  only  been  impatient  for  his  visit;  but 
it  was  amusing  to  watch  his  pink-and-white  dismay. 
She  nodded  slowly. 

'Oh,  I  say,  I'm  immensely  sorry,"  he  exclaimed, 
"if  you  mean  it!    And  is  Royce  offended  too?" 

"I  can't  answer  for  Royce.  /'m  offended,  if  that 
matters!" 

"Oh,  please  don't  be  unkind;  I've  been  away,  on 
my  honor!  I  left  town  the  first  week  in  May — 
broke  all  my  engagements — and  went  into  the  coun- 
try. In  future  I  am  always  going  to  spend  the  season 
in  the  country.  That  London  should  be  fashionable 
during  the  months  when  the  country  is  its  loveliest  is 
a  monumental  instance  of  human  perversity.  I  was 
at  Studland — I  don't  suppose  you  know  it?  I  can't 
tell  you  how  peaceful,  how  divine  it  was!" 

"Has  she  accepted  you?"  asked  the  lady. 

"Oh,  now  you're  chaffing — that  means  I'm  for- 
given.    Thank  you,  Mrs.  Royce." 

"I'm  quite  serious.  You  don't  expect  me  to  believe 
that  you  left  town  in  May  for — where  was  it? — 
somewhere  peaceful  and  divine,  unless  there  was  an 
attraction?" 


23O  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"There  was  an  attraction,"  said  Otho;  "there  was 
Nature !  Nature  and  Art.  I  was  down  there  with 
a  man  who  was  making  studies  for  a  picture.  You 
observe  I'm  technical :  'making  studies'  I  He  used 
to  paint,  and  I  used  to  read  poetry.  I  got  up  at  eight 
every  morning,  and  lived  in  the  sunshine.  I  assure 
you  that  when  I  think  of  the  number  of  springs  I've 
wasted  in  Piccadilly  I'm  full  of  contrition." 

"And  you  really  didn't  read  the  poetry  to  a  girl?" 

"I  never  spoke  to  a  girl  the  whole  time  I  was 
there.  One  doesn't  keep  talking  about  some  things, 
Mrs.  Royce,  but  there  are  wounds  that  don't  heal." 
He  looked  at  her  plaintively.  "Did  you  think  I  was 
so  shallow  that  I  could  forget  so  soon?  You  were 
very  nice  to  me  once  when  I  stayed  and  bored  you  an 
unconscionable  time.  I  thought  you  understood  that 
I  shouldn't  forget!" 

"But  you  must  forget,"  she  replied.  "I  remember 
what  I  said  better  than  you  do.  I  said  you'd  meet 
somebody  before  long  who  would  make  you  ashamed 
of  yourself  for  having  railed  against  us  poor  women. 
All  women  were  heartless  because  one  girl  had 
treated  you  badly.    Oh,  Mr.  Fairbairn!" 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  was  very  absurd — all 
that's  past.  You  were  the  'somebody'  who  made 
me  ashamed  of  that!  But  I  shall  never  love  again. 
I  could  never  feel  more  than  friendship  for  any 
woman  now." 

"You  are  very  faithful !"  she  said,  regarding  him 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  23  I 

with  a  display  of  eager  interest.  "I  thought  it  was 
only  my  sex  who  could  be  so  faithful  as  all  that?" 

"Your  sex?"  he  exclaimed.     "Why " 

"Ah  !'  she  said,  lifting  an  admonitory  finger. 

"You  are  always  the  exception,  Mrs.  Royce!"  he 
laughed. 

"The  'present  company,'  "  said  she.    "Of  course !" 

"No,  but  I  mean  it  honestly.  I've  never  seen  any 
woman  so — so  sympathetic,  and  so  devoted  to  her 
husband  as  you  are.  I  congratulated  Royce  verbally 
before  I  met  you — as  in  duty  bound;  but  since  I've 
known  you,  I've  congratulated  him  a  hundred  times 
in  my  own  mind.  And  how  he  has  forged  ahead 
since  his  marriage !  You've  been  a  Mascotte  to 
him." 

She  sighed. 

"Don't  you  think  you  have?  Why  are  you  look- 
ing doubtful?" 

"Oh,  of  course  he  has  got  on,"  she  said;  "but  I 
wish  my  mascotry — what  is  the  word? — could  take 
him  further!  I  want  to  see  Royce  in  a  position  to 
choose  his  parts,  and  to  show  people  what  he  can 
really  do." 

"He  ought  to  have  a  theatre,"  said  Fairbairn. 

Her  hands  rose,  and  fell  to  her  lap,  in  a  little  im- 
patient gesture:  "Let's  talk  of  something  else,  Mr. 
Fairbairn,  please — I  didn't  mean  to  mention  this ! 
I  know  you  once  offered  to  start  him  in  a  theatre, 
so  it's  the  one  subject  I  can't  speak  to  you  about." 


232  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"But  why  ?"  he  asked.     "Why  can't  you  ?" 

"Isn't  it  natural?  You  might  think  I Be- 
sides, Royce  would  be  very  angry  if  he  knew  that 
I'd  let  you  guess  we  were  troubled." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  in  trouble  because  he 
can't  take  a  theatre — that  you  are  both  worrying 
about  it?" 

"Don't  make  me  say  any  more,"  she  begged.  "I'd 
rather  not!" 

"But" — his  eyes  were  big  and  grieved.  "Is  this 
fair  to  me  ?  You  know  I'd  like  to  serve  Royce.  And 
I  thought  you  and  I  were  friends?  You  might  trust 
me.  Between  ourselves !  Do  you  really  mean  you're 
both  worried  because  he  can't  take  a  theatre?" 

"Well,  I'll  say  that  /  am.  If  you  spoke  to  Royce, 
he  would  tell  you  that  it  is  too  soon — according  to 
Royce  it  will  always  be  too  soon !  Royce  lacks  con- 
fidence. This  is  one  of  the  cases  where  a  woman  sees 
farther  than  a  man.  Royce  is  wasting  his  time  at 
the  Pantheon  now.  He  can  never  do  any  better  there 
than  he  has  done.  What  has  he  to  look  forward  to? 
That  Greatorex  will  ask  him  to  play  his  parts?  Or 
put  on  Othello  to  give  Mr.  Royce  Oliphant  the  op- 
portunity to  make  the  success  of  the  evening  as 
"Iago"?  Short  of  Management  he  has  gone  as  far 
as  he  can  get.  Well !  one  day  he  will  go  into  Man- 
agement. Some  capitalist  will  come  along  and  offer 
to  back  him — there  is  no  risk  about  it;  it  will  be  a 
very  good  investment — but  he  won't  be  so  young 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  233 

then;  some  of  his  best  years  will  have  been  lost;  the 
time  between  to-day  and  the  day  when  the  capitalist 
appears  will  have  been  wasted !  I  see  it  more  clearly 
than  the  poor  boy  himself,  though,  if  he  told  the 
truth,  he  sees  it  partially  too.  As  his  wife,  how  can 
I  help  being  distressed?" 

"But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Royce,"  cried  Otho,  "why 
haven't  you  said  this  to  me  before?  You  knew  of 
my  offer  to  him — why  didn't  you  hint  to  me  that  it 
might  be  repeated?  I've  never  thought  about  it;  he 
seemed  to  me  to  be  doing  splendidly — what  do  / 
know  of  stage  matters  ?  I  feel  awfully  guilty,  really ! 
Of  course,  he  ought  to  have  a  theatre !  Now  you've 
put  it  to  me,  I  understand.  I'll  have  a  talk  to  him 
this  afternoon!" 

"No,  no!"  she  said,  aflame  with  joy;  "it  mustn't 
look  as  if  it  came  from  me — he'd  never  forgive  me. 
Speak  to  him  when  you're  here  again;  and  be  firm! 
Tell  him  he's  a  fool,  and  insist  on  having  your  way 
— I  should  fancy  you  generally  get  your  way  when 
your  mind  is  made  up,  don't  you?  Say — oh,  say 
whatever  you  like,  but  don't  let  him  suspect  that 
we've  been  exchanging  confidences,  or  his  pride  will 
be  up  in  arms  in  a  moment!" 

Otho  promised  to  exercise  the  utmost  diplomacy; 
the  confederate  was  to  say  but  little,  but  he  was  to 
address  his  arguments  as  much  to  her  as  to  Oliphant. 
It  was  arranged  that  he  should  drop  in  a  few  days 
later  without  warning.     The  sublety  of  the  well- 


234  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

meant  scheme  to  deceive  his  friend  pleased  him 
vastly,  and  it  was  not  a  whit  less  gratifying  as  he 
took  his  leave  to  remember  that  "Mrs.  Royce"  would 
be  benefited  as  well.  Blanche  thought  he  was  the 
most  charming  young  man  she  had  ever  met.  She 
had  not  nursed  many  misgivings,  but  the  alacrity  of 
his  response  warmed  her  heart  towards  him;  she 
regretted  that  she  had  been  compelled  to  be  a  trifle 
disingenuous. 

The  programme  was  duly  carried  out,  but,  to 
her  surprise,  Oliphant  demurred  very  faintly.  He 
proved  quite  willing  to  be  persuaded  that  it  was  not 
premature  for  him  to  adventure  management.  He 
had  been  loath  to  take  the  first  step,  averse  from  ask- 
ing the  favor,  but  now  that  Fairbairn  again  came 
forward  without  solicitation,  every  pulse  in  him  leapt 
with  gladness. 

"You  would  be  backing  your  opinion  of  us  very 
heavily,  Otho,"  he  said;  "don't  forget  that  if  it 
proved  a  mistake,  it  would  be  an  expensive  one !  If 
you're  prepared  to  risk  it,  Heaven  knows  /  can't  say 
'Don't!'  But  think  the  matter  well  over  first;  we'll 
talk  of  it  again." 

"I've  nothing  to  think  about,"  persisted  Fairbairn; 
"it's  for  you  to  say  'yes'  or  'no.'  If  I'm  any  judge 
of  acting,  I  shan't  lose — on  the  contrary,  it  will  be  a 
rattling  good  thing  for  me."  He  turned  to  Blanche. 
"You  see  the  commercial  instinct  can't  be  silenced, 
Mrs.  Royce;  it's  hereditary!" 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  235 

She  laughed.  "A  theatre  is  a  business  to  every- 
one. Well,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  me — Royce  must 
decide!" 

"You  know  the  only  lines  on  which  I'd  run  a  the- 
atre," said  Oliphant,  speaking  thickly;  "I  want  to 
produce  the  best  available  work.  There  will  be  no 
concessions  to  catch  the  crowd.  There  is  no  fortune, 
no  large  income,  to  be  made  from  a  theatre  that  I 
control." 

"It's  going  to  be  'Art  for  Art's  sake,'  "  returned 
Otho;  "I  quite  understand!  I  haven't  a  consuming 
desire  to  drop  a  heap  of  money,  but  I  can't  pretend 
that  I'm  only  actuated'  by  the  hope  of  making  a  pot, 
either.  If  it  does  put  anything  in  my  pocket,  I  shan't 
be  angry  with  you;  if  it  only  pays  expenses  there'll 
be  satisfaction  enough  in  feeling  that  I've  a  share  in 
an  artistic  undertaking.  Which  theatre  do  you  think 
you  might  get?" 

"I  haven't  a  notion.  We  shan't  get  a  house  di- 
rectly we  want  one,  you  know — I  can't  walk  into  man- 
agement next  month.  And  first  there  are  the  plays 
to  be  considered — there  are  a  great  many  things  to 
be  considered!  I  warn  you  you'll  be  badgered  to 
death  before  the  curtain  goes  up." 

"Not  I !  I  shall  come  to  the  First  Night,  or  the 
dress-rehearsal,  when  the  bother  is  all  over.  The 
work  is  for  you,  my  friend !" 

"Well,"  cried  Oliphant,  "we  shall  have  to  go  into 
figures,  and  you  shall  tell  me  what  your  idea  is."    His 


236  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

excitement  broke  into  action,  and  he  clapped  Fair- 
bairn  on  the  shoulder  wildly.  "You  shall  be  proud 
of  your  stage,  Otho !  I  don't  swear  for  the  actor- 
manager,  but  you  shall  be  proud  of  the  work,  I 
promise  you!  What  do  you  say,  Blanche?  We'll 
do  him  justice,  won't  we?" 

She  assented  gaily,  but  he  had  not  waited  for  her 
assent.  Momentarily  he  had  forgotten  that  their 
views  were  opposed,  and  his  delight  was  boundless. 
It  was  only  after  an  appointment  had  been  made  for 
the  morrow,  and  Fairbairn  had  gone,  that  the  first 
stir  of  remembrance  tinged  elation  with  regret,  and 
he  perceived  anew  that  to  his  own  ears  the  Triumphal 
March  must  always  have  a  discord. 

Blanche  and  he  paced  the  room.  Both  were 
shaken  by  the  prospect,  but  to  each  the  prospect  was 
different.  The  wife  saw  the  obvious — showy  parts, 
public  adulation  and  professional  deference,  and  a 
life-size  portrait  of  herself  in  the  lobby.  How  she 
wished  that  one  or  two  women  that  she  hated  would 
apply  for  engagements  !  The  man,  to  whom  dramatic 
art  was  a  religion,  saw  a  theatre  that  should  be  the 
expression  of  his  life.  He  saw  on  how  marvellous 
a  basis  this  ideal  theatre  would  be  reared — due  to  a 
friend  who  did  not  regard  it  as  a  means  of  money- 
making.  As  he  realized  the  magnitude  of  his  oppor- 
tunity, Oliphant  trembled,  and  wrung  his  hands  in  a 
prayer  that  he  might  be  worthy  of  the  power  vested 
in  him. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  237 

She  brought  him  back  to  the  practical  with  a  jerk. 

"What  shall  we  put  our  salaries  down  at?"  she 
asked. 

"I  haven't  thought  about  it,"  he  said.  "How  much 
do  you  suggest?" 

UA  hundred,"  said  she  promptly. 

"A  hundred?"  he  echoed.     "How  a  hundred?" 

"/'m  getting  twenty." 

"But  Vm  very  far  from  getting  eighty!  How  a 
hundred?  In  common  gratitude  we  must  put  down 
our  salaries  at  less  than  they  would  be  anywhere 
else — not  more !  Remember  that  the  capital  is  en- 
tirely Otho's ;  we  risk  nothing !" 

"'Less'!"  she  exclaimed;  "when  we  do  all  the 
work?" 

"My  dear  Blanche,  we  share  the  profits." 

"Yes,  I  know.  Well,  if  we  charge  the  same  it's 
fair  enough — I  don't  see  why  we  should  charge  'less.' 
If  it  weren't  for  us,  there  wouldn't  be  any  profits." 

"And  if  it  weren't  for  Otho's  generosity,  we 
shouldn't  have  a  theatre !  He  is  doing  a  very  won- 
derful thing — let's  show  that  we  appreciate  it! 
There's  not  one  man  in  a  million  who  would  start 
another  in  a  theatre  from  pure  good  feeling.  He 
gives  us  perfect  liberty — he  says :  'You  want  a  the- 
atre; take  one,  and  play  whatever  you  like.  If 
there's  a  loss  I'll  meet  it.'  It's  an  unprecedented 
offer !  It  isn't  even  as  if  he  felt  as — as  we  do.  Otho 
is  a  fellow  who  likes  literature  and  art  everywhere 


238  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

excepting  on  the  Stage.  If  it  weren't  for  us — and  he 
ran  a  theatre  at  all — he'd  do  it  for  a  lark  and  put 
up  musical  comedy.  We  can't  treat  him  as  if  he  were 
a  speculator." 

"What  did  you  mean,"  she  said,  "by  telling  him 
there  couldn't  be  any  fortune,  any  large  income? 
Why  not?  They  say  Wilkie  made  fifty  thousand 
pounds  out  of  Only  Once  More  alone!" 

"Only  Once  More  was  a  farce,"  said  Oliphant; 
"we  don't  propose  to  play  farce,  do  we?  You 
wouldn't  like  that  yourself?" 

"No,  but  plenty  of  dramas  make  money.  Look 
what  the  Hendons  made  at  the  Mirror!  That  was 
drama  !  Look  what  Shedlock  is  doing  at  the  Queen's 
with  this  last  ghastly  thing — I  hear  the  people  are 
eating  it!" 

He  shivered. 

"I  think  you  know,"  he  said,  "I'd  rather  be  in 
engagements  all  my  life  than  have  a  theatre,  and 
run  it  on  Mr.  Shedlock's  lines.  I'll  produce  the 
best  work,  or  none !  And  believe  me,  Blanche,  you 
can  get  all  you  want  by  aiming  at  the  highest — you 
will  be  much  more  prominent  than  if  you  content 
yourself  with  the  second  rate." 

"But  I  shan't  get  all  I  want  if  we're  going  to  be 
poor  all  our  lives,"  she  answered.  "I  do  hope, 
Royce,  you  aren't  going  to  fritter  this  chance  away 
on  fads !" 

"  'Poor,'  "  he  repeated ;  "do  you  think  we're  poor  ? 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  239 

What  more  can  you  want?  YouVe  piles  of  frocks; 
we've  a  pretty  flat;  you  need  never  look  twice  at  a 
five-pound  note " 

"But  all  this,"  she  interrupted  impatiently,  "will 
be  poverty  when  we're  in  management.  We  aren't 
going  to  live  here,  and  have  two  people  to  lunch  once 
a  month,  when  we've  our  theatre.  We  shall  have  to 
give  garden  parties,  and  entertain  on  a  big  scale." 

He  looked  at  her,  surprised. 

"Why,"  he  said;  "and  how?     What  with?" 

"Yes,  'what  with?' — that's  just  it!  If  we  don't 
make  money,  we  can't  do  it.  Our  salaries,  especially 
if  you're  going  to  cut  them  down,  won't  be  enough. 
One  minute  you  say  we  share  the  profits,  and  the  next 
you  say  there  won't  be  any." 

"I  don't  think  I  said  that — I  certainly  trust  there 
will  be.  All  I  said  was  that  they  wouldn't  be  great, 
at  all  events  at  the  beginning.  I'm  not  so  eccentric 
that  I'd  rather  avoid  a  profit  than  make  one." 

"That's  some  comfort !"  she  returned.  "Of  course 
one  wants  to  do  good  pieces !  You  don't  suppose 
that  /'m  so  eccentric  that  I'd  prefer  them  bad,  do 
you?  Only  no  Brand,  Royce — if  you're  going  to 
open  the  campaign  with  Brand  because  you  want  to 
play  the  part,  we  shall  be  doomed!" 

"Have  you  read  it?"  he  inquired. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said,  "but  I  tried  to." 

Oliphant  converted  a  sigh  into  a  laugh. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  wasn't  thinking  of  Brand/ 


24O  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

I'd  like  to  work  with  you  hand  in  hand,  Blanche. 
Let's  correct  each  other's  mistakes — we  both  make 
them,  no  doubt!  If  you  tend  to  one  extreme,  I  sup- 
pose /  tend  to  the  other.    If  we  meet  half-way " 

"It  will  be  a  sensible  compromise!"  she  declared, 
smiling. 

His  heart  sank  at  the  word;  he  had  felt  it  coming 
when  he  paused,  and  the  clang  of  it  knelled  in  his 
soul.  Was  he  talking  of  "compromise"  in  the  first 
hour!  No,  he  would  not  juggle  with  his  conscience; 
he  would  be  true  to  his  faith !  Though  conquest 
abroad  would  be  rendered  ten  times  harder  by  op- 
position in  his  home,  he  would  stick  to  his  colors  to 
the  last.  He  had  yearned  for  this  opportunity, 
dreamed  of  it,  labored  and  lived  for  it.  God  had 
sent  it  to  him;  and  by  God's  help  he  would  justify 
the  boon! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

It  was  at  last  decided  that  the  joint  salary  of  the 
actor-manager  and  his  wife  should  be  fifty  pounds. 
Otho  was  to  be  responsible  for  the  rent,  the  cost  of 
production,  and  all  expenses  "behind"  and  "in 
front,"  and  he  volunteered  to  spend  seventy  pounds 
a  week  in  newspaper  advertisements,  though  Oli- 
phant  had  estimated  them  at  less  than  sixty.  With 
the  work  he  was  to  have  no  concern.  Profits  were 
to  be  equally  divided,  and  Oliphant,  while  stipulating 
that  there  should  be  no  fees  for  cloak-rooms  or 
programmes,  undertook  that  the  business-manager 
should  arrange  for  advertisements  on  the  latter,  the 
commission  on  the  hire  of  opera-glasses,  and  the 
sub-letting  of  the  bars  to  the  best  advantage.  These 
were  all  details  of  which  Otho  knew  nothing,  and  of 
which  Oliphant  knew  much  less  than  he  supposed. 
They  pertained  to  the  seamy  side  of  a  theatrical  en- 
terprise, and  could  not  be  ignored,  however;  indeed, 
the  further  the  project  progressed,  the  more  compli- 
cated did  the  seamy  side  become. 

But  before  it  appeared  to  progress  at  all,  Oliphant 
was  dismayed  to  see  how  time  passed — how  the 
weeks  and  months  went  by  until  the  First  Night, 

241 


242  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

never  any  nearer,  seemed  as  elusive  as  a  Will  o'  the 
Wisp.  The  earliest  idea  had  been  to  obtain  a  lease 
of  the  Embankment  Theatre,  but  Otho,  buoyant 
with  champagne  one  night,  had  soared  superior  to 
the  scheme  just  when  the  negotiations  were  assuming 
definite  shape,  and  had  declared  that  he  wanted  to 
take  a  bigger  house,  and  "run  the  whole  thing  on 
first-class  lines."  Oliphant,  who  was  hankering  to 
have  a  poetic  play  of  Silvain  Lacour's  done  into 
English — a  production  demanding  elaborate  mise-en- 
scene — was  only  too  ready  to  be  convinced  that  the 
bolder  course  was  the  wiser,  and  the  solicitor  to  the 
Embankment  coming  to  terms  tardily,  found  that  he 
had  come  to  terms  too  late. 

A  bigger  house  was  not  immediately  available; 
nor  could  Silvain  Lacour  be  brought  to  believe  all  at 
once  that  any  translation  could  do  justice  to  his 
genius.  A  visit  to  Paris,  with  the  offer  of  an  in- 
creased percentage  of  the  receipts,  persuaded  him 
that  he  had  underrated  the  resources  of  the  English 
language;  but  the  English  poet  on  whom  Oliphant 
had  set  his  heart  was  temporarily  incapacitated  by 
gout,  and  there  were,  moreover,  all  kinds  of  anxie- 
ties and  disappointments  relative  to  the  modern 
drama  by  which  God  and  the  State  was  to  be  fol- 
lowed. 

This  God  and  the  State  appeared  to  be  an  admi- 
rable selection  for  the  opening  venture.  Though 
Lacour  might  not  be  a  great  dramatic  poet,  he  came 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  243 

as  near  to  being  one  as  did  any  writer  living.  The 
action  of  the  play  was  laid  on  an  imaginary  island, 
and  the  period  was  described  simply  as  "The  Past," 
but  the  interest  was  for  all  lands  and  for  all  time. 
The  central  situation,  too,  was  magnificent,  and 
though  it  was  a  finer  acting-scene  for  Blanche  than 
for  himself,  Oliphant  would  have  felt  it  a  privilege 
merely  to  produce  such  a  work.  That  its  beauty 
should  pass  unnoticed  looked  to  him  impossible. 

Blanche,  who  was  unable  to  read  French,  had 
heard  enough  to  understand  that  she  had  a  very  emo- 
tional part,  and  she  therefore  forgave  its  being  in 
verse.  Her  principal  objection  was  that  her  costume 
must  be  simple  and  poor.  Oliphant  had  his  Court 
apart  from  her,  his  scenes  of  splendour;  but  she,  like 
the  daughter  of  Triboulet,  lived  in  a  world  con- 
tained by  four  walls,  and  only  reached  the  gates  of 
his  palace,  in  the  last  Act.  to  die. 

Meanwhile  she  had  other  meditations.  When  they 
opened  the  theatre,  they  must  have  a  larger  draw- 
ing-room; she  had  determined  that.  A  garden  pos- 
sibly she  might  have  to  waive,  but  a  larger  drawing- 
room  was  essential.  It  was  not  necessary  to  discuss 
the  matter  with  Royce,  but  she  utilized  her  morning 
strolls  to  interrogate  various  house-agents  in  the 
neighborhood.  On  one  occasion  she  met  Otho  in 
Victoria  Street,  and,  as  they  proceeded  towards  the 
flat  together,  she  told  him  where  she  had  been. 

"I'm  not  talking  to  Royce  about  it,"  she  explained; 


244  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"he  has  enough  to  think  of;  but  it  would  be  idiotic 
for  us  to  remain  where  we  are  when  we  go  into 
Management.  The  more  people  we  have  home,  and 
the  more  we  visit,  the  better  for  all  of  us  it  will  be. 
Did  you  know  that?" 

"It  never  occurred  to  me,  Mrs.  Royce;  of  course 
you're  quite  right,  though." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  agree  with  me,"  she  said. 

"I  always  do,  I  think." 

"I  think  you  do — it's  very  sweet  of  you !  On  the 
First  Night  we  must  have  a  reception  on  the  stage. 
I  want  you  to  bring  everybody  you  can.  Women 
as  well !  Women  can  be  so  useful !  When — oh 
when,  Mr.  Fairbairn — shall  we  know  for  sure?  Oh, 
the  suspense  of  it  all !     It's  simply  awful." 

"Royce  expects  to  settle  for  the  Mayfair,  you 
know,  now,"  he  said.  "I  do  wish  we  could  have  got 
ahead  more  quickly  for  your  sake." 

"Oh!"  she  turned  to  him  with  swift  deprecation; 
"please  don't  think  me  such  a  horrid  ungrateful 
wretch  as  to  grumble  to  you.  Even  if  we  had  got 
the  theatre,  we  couldn't  'open'  yet.  Nobody  can 
help  it;  and  you — well,  if  I  grumbled  to  you,  I  should 
deserve  a  shaking."  Her  eyes  laughed  in  his  for 
an  instant.  "I  think  I  should  ask  you  to  give  it  to 
me!" 

The  young  man  met  her  gaze  with  a  touch  of  em- 
barrassment which  he  did  not  care  to  define. 

"Well,  I  believe  we  shall  have  a  huge  triumph 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  245 

when  the  piece  is  produced,"  he  declared.  "Don't 
you?  Of  course  I've  no  experience,  and  I  only  judge 
as  an  outsider,  but  when  I  read  it,  I  was  tremen- 
dously impressed." 

"How  cruel  of  you  to  remind  me  of  my  appalling 
ignorance;  /'m  simply  dying  to  read  it,  and  I  can't." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  forgot.  Tell  me  !  Shall  I  make 
you  a  rough  translation?    Would  you  like  me  to?" 

"Oh  no,"  she  exclaimed;  "how  can  you  propose 
such  a  thing?    Why,  it  would  be  frightful  trouble!" 

"It  wouldn't  be  any  trouble  at  all,  done  for  you. 
I'll  start  it  to-night." 

"Do  you  mean  it?  Really?  But  to-night!  Aren't 
you  going  out  anywhere?" 

"I  wasn't  going  anywhere  particular.  It  will  be 
an  immense  pleasure  to  me,  I  assure  you.  Don't 
expect  it  for  a  few  days — you  know,  being  verse,  it 
will  take  a  little  time,  although  I  shall  only  aim  at 
conveying  the  sense.  I'll  send  it  to  you  directly  it's 
finished." 

"You  might  spare  half  an  hour  more,  and  bring 
it,  mightn't  you?"  she  suggested. 

"So  I  might,"  he  said.  "Then  directly  it's  finished, 
I'll  bring  it  to  you." 

"And  read  itl"  added  Blanche  gaily.  "Oh,  you 
must  certainly  read  it.  The  adapter  always  reads 
the  play!" 

His  cheeks  grew  pinker.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Royce, 
I've  a   fair  amount  of  self-esteem — not  to   call  it 


246  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

Vanity' — but  I  shouldn't  have  the  pluck  to  read  aloud 
to  you  to  save  my  life." 

She  hung  her  head  in  mock  abashment. 

"I  shouldn't,"  he  insisted;  "honor  bright!" 

"Am  I  such  a  terrible  person?"  she  inquired 
humbly. 

"No,  but  you're  an  actress,  and  you'd  make  game 
of  me — not  openly  of  course,  but " 

The  reproach  in  her  face  shamed  him. 

"You  can't  mean  that,"  she  said;  "you  know  bet- 
ter!    Here  we  are!     Come  in  and  see  Royce!" 

Oliphant  was  in  an  arm-chair  before  the  fire, 
with  the  Stage  in  his  hands.  Blanche  asked  him 
what  he  was  doing  with  it,  for  the  day  was  Tuesday. 
She  unpinned  her  hat,  and  Otho  took  her  jacket  from 
her;  he  was  conscious  of  a  pleased  interest  as  he 
watched  her  settling  her  hair  before  the  glass. 

"I  was  looking  down  the  'Professional  Cards,'  " 
replied  Oliphant;  "I  want  to  find  out  where  Miss 
King  is,  if  I  can.  I'd  like  to  offer  her  an  engagement 
when  the  time  comes." 

"Miss  King?"  said  Blanche.  "Oh  yes,  I  know! 
But  why — why  this  philanthropy?" 

"Who  is  Miss  King?"  asked  Otho.  He  found 
that  he  was  still  stroking  Blanche's  muff,  and  he  put 
it  aside.     "Give  me  a  cigarette,  Royce!" 

"There  they  are,  old  man,  behind  you.  Miss 
King    is    a    very    clever    woman.      'Philanthropy'? 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  247 

There's  no  philanthropy  about  it!  Where  does 
'philanthropy'  come  in?" 

"It's  a  blessed  word,  anyhow,"  murmured  Otho, 
inhaling — "like  'Mesopotamia.'  " 

"And  just  as  irrelevant,"  said  Oliphant.  "I  want 
to  offer  her  an  engagement  in  the  piece  because  I 
don't  think  we  could  get  anybody  better." 

Blanche  laughed  shortly. 

"When  did  everyone  else  die?"  she  inquired. 
"How  very  absurd,  Royce — 'couldn't  get  anybody 
better'!  She's  a  provincial  actress,  Mr.  Fairbairn, 
who  fascinated  my  impressionable  husband  by  the 
genius  with  which  she  did  nothing  at  some  matinee. 
Engage  her,  my  dear  boy,  by  all  means,  I'm  sure  / 
don't  mind;  but  say  it's  because  you  like  her,  not 
because  you  couldn't  get  anybody  better.  I  thought 
we  were  to  have  a  West  End  Company — in  which 
case  we  could  get  a  good  many  people  better!" 

"Then  I  am  going  to  engage  her  because  I  like 
her,"  answered  Oliphant.  "But  for  Otho's  satisfac- 
tion, perhaps  you'll  permit  me  to  repeat  that  she 
has  talent;  I  shouldn't  suggest  casting  her  for  'Asto- 
laine'  if  I  weren't  sure  of  it." 

Otho  puffed  his  cigarette  a  shade  uncomfortably. 

"I  daresay  she'll  be  very  good,"  he  observed,  eager 
to  say  the  right  thing,  and  failing  signally.  "  'Asto- 
laine'  would  appeal  to  any  woman,  I  should  say!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  exclaimed  Blanche.  "Is 
'Astolaine'  an  important  part,  Royce?" 


248  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"  'Astolaine'  is  your  sister.  It's  not  a  long  part — 
it's  the  most  important  female  part  after  yours,  of 
course;  in  fact,  it's  the  only  important  female  part 
besides  yours." 

She  looked  from  one  man  to  the  other  incredu- 
lously. 

"And  you're  going  to  give  it  to  a  woman  who 
isn't  known,"  she  demanded;  "to  a  woman  who  has 
never  spoken  twenty  lines  in  town?  What  for?  I 
don't  think  Mr.  Fairbairn  is  so  anxious  to  save  five 
pounds  a  week  on  the  salary  list;  are  you,  Mr.  Fair- 
bairn?" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Royce,"  he  stammered,  "you  can 
engage  whom  you  like — anybody  you  both  decide  on 
— you  know  the  arrangements  have  nothing  to  do 
with  me  at  all." 

"We  shan't  save  anything  on  the  salary  list!"  said 
Oliphant.  "Look  here,  Otho,  this  woman  is  an 
artist;  she'll  play  'Astolaine'  infinitely  better  than 
many  women  who  have  big  reputations.  The  part 
is  worth  about  ten  pounds  a  week,  and  I  propose  to 
pay  her  ten  pounds — always  presuming  that  she  re- 
hearses it  satisfactorily.     Do  you  object?" 

"/  don't  object,"  said  Otho;  "certainly  not,  old 
chap.     I  don't  object  to  anything." 

"Then  if  I  can  learn  where  she  is,  I'll  write  to  her 
— or  she  may  be  in  South  Africa,  or  Australia,  when 
she's  wanted." 

"But  there  is  no  philanthropy  about  it?"  cried 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  249 

Blanche  with  affected  amusement.  "You  are  going 
to  offer  her  the  best  chance  she  has  ever  had,  and 
the  best  salary,  and  there  is  no  philanthropy  about 
it?  Why,  you  couldn't  do  any  more  for  the  woman 
if  you  were  in  her  debt !" 

"I  am  in  her  debt,"  said  Oliphant;  "I  owe  her  the 
only  comfort  I  received  in  the  greatest  grief  of  my 
life." 

He  had  turned  pale;  and  Blanche  also  changed 
color,  though  she  could  only  conjecture  his  meaning. 
Fairbairn  wished  he  had  not  come  in.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Royce  had  created  a  serious  discussion  out 
of  a  playful  remonstrance.  Doubtless  every  mar- 
ried couple  had  domestic  differences;  but  the  illusion 
had  existed  that  Oliphant  and  his  wife  were  the  one 
exception. 

When  he  took  his  leave  it  was  with  a  little  dis- 
may, and  the  matter  recurred  to  him  during  the  even- 
ing while  he  was  at  work  on  the  translation.  The 
translation  was  far  from  being  a  task  to  be  knocked 
off  lightly  by  a  man  of  taste.  He  put  down  his  pen 
more  than  once,  and  questioned  if,  with  the  ignor- 
ance of  celibacy,  he  was  exaggerating  the  suggestive- 
ness  of  the  incident  he  had  witnessed.  He  decided 
that  he  was,  for  Mrs.  Royce  was  too  charming  for 
any  man  to  be  unhappy  with  her ! 

Oliphant  had  not  continued  his  study  of  the  Stage 
after  his  friend's  departure,  nor  had  Blanche  re- 
vived the  subject  of  the  debate.     A  diversion  had 


25O  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

been  effected  by  the  entrance  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ellerton. 

The  novelist  had  evidently  come  with  a  purpose; 
and  though  Oliphant  had  always  understood  that 
he  had  persistently  refused  offers  to  write  for  the 
Theatre,  it  transpired  that  in  the  course  of  the  last 
ten  years  he  had  written  several  very  literary  dramas 
without  any  invitation  at  all. 

"It  occurred  to  me/'  he  said,  uthat  your  theatre 
will  be  conducted  on  my  lines.  Now  I  have  the  play 
for  you.     And  I  have  brought  it!" 

"I  should  like  to  read  it,"  answered  Oliphant; 
"thanks.  Of  course  you  know  our  opening  produc- 
tion is  settled?  We  shall  probably  get  the  Mayfair 
from  next  September,  and  we  open  with  Lacour's 
God  and  the  State — we  shall  keep  to  the  title :  God 
and  the  State!" 

"I  heard  something  about  it  the  last  time  Blanche 
came;  I  didn't  know  you  had  actually  settled.  Not 
till  next  September?  Well,  you  might  do  this 
second." 

"The  next  piece  is  fixed  too.  Still  if — if  it's  suit- 
able, we  might  do  it  third  or  fourth." 

"It's  a  lovely  play,  Royce,"  said  Mrs.  Ellerton 
fervently;  "I'm  sure  you'll  like  it.  Blanche  knows 
it — don't  you,  dear? — The  Alienist." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Blanche,  "is  that  it?  Yes,  I  re- 
member it."  Her  tone  was  not  enthusiastic,  and  her 
mother  repeated  nervously: 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  25  I 

"If  you  read  it,  Royce,  I'm  quite  sure  you'll  like 
it.  The  hero's  and  heroine's  parts  are  both  beauti- 
ful.    They  are  really!" 

"The  hero  and  heroine's,"  said  the  novelist. 
"How  often  have  I  told  you  that,  I  wonder!" 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  murmured,  "I'm  so  stupid;  I 
must  take  care !  They're  both  splendid,  Royce ! 
And  the  scene  in  the  study,  where  he  discovers  the 
signs  of  insanity  in  his  own  wife,  and  you  hear  the 
dance-music  of  the  children's  quadrille  in  the  next 
room,  and  the  moonlight  is  streaming  through  the 
windows,  is  grand." 

"It  sounds  so,"  observed  Mr.  Ellerton,  "as  you 
describe  it;  'the  moonlight  streaming  through  the 
windows'  has  a  truly  literary  ring!  Your  mother-in- 
law,  Royce,  is  an  estimable  woman;  and  the  Editor 
of  Winsome  Words,  who  will  be  one-and-twenty 
next  birthday,  has  the  highest  opinion  of  her  talent. 
His  communication  this  week  is  really  most  flatter- 
ing. But  if  she  told  you  the  story  of  a  work  of 
Tolstoy's,  you  might  think  you  were  listening  to  a 
synopsis  of  a  penny  novelette.  She  'sees  through  the 
medium  of  a  temperament' — to  quote  Emile — and 
her  temperament  is  of  the  novelette,  noveletty!" 

This  was  one  of  the  speeches — delivered  with  de- 
liberation, and  with  all  the  points  carefully  empha- 
sized—which invariably  filled  Oliphant  with  a  desire 
to  kick  the  smiling  and  sarcastic  gentleman;  and 
ostentatiously  ignoring  him  now,  he  addressed  him- 


252  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

self  to  the  poor  woman  who  was  endeavoring  to 
wear  an  easy  smile. 

"What  was  the  flattering  letter,  Mother?"  he 
asked. 

uOh,  nothing,"  she  said.  "Only  a  few  lines  with 
the  cheque,  and  a  request  for  two  more  stories. 
When  are  you  coming  to  see  us  again?" 

"If  you  knew  how  busy  I  am  I"  he  exclaimed  apol- 
ogetically.    "How  is  Gertrude?" 

"Yes,  how  is  Gertrude?"  said  Blanche;  "we  must 
really  try  to  run  out  one  afternoon  this  week!  I 
haven't  seen  her  for  an  age.  And  you  know,  Royce, 
weVe  been  awfully  rude  to  Mrs.  Le  Mesurier — 
we've  never  called  there  since  that  luncheon  party! 
And  there's  Lady  Liddington — we're  neglecting 
everyone.  What  Lady  Fleck  will  think  of  us  I  don't 
know!  Do  tell  Gertie  how  busy  we  are,  Mother! 
Why  doesn't  she  come  and  see  us?  Although,  as 
we're  out  so  much,  she'd  better  not  come  without 
hearing  from  me  first!" 

"You  are  becoming  more  fashionable  every  day, 
I  perceive,"  drawled  Mr.  Ellerton.  "The  feted 
favorites  of  Fortune !" 

"Don't!"  she  sighed  languidly.  "The  bore  it  is — 
if  one  could  only  be  quiet!  I  long  for  a  six  months' 
holiday  in  a  place  where  there  are  no  visitors  and  no 
invitation  cards.  Shall  I  ever  get  it?  .  .  .  You're 
going  to  stay,  aren't  you?" 

She  liked  them  to  stay  to  dinner  when  they  came. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  253 

In  this  building,  too,  there  was  a  restaurant  down- 
stairs, and  it  gratified  her  to  cavil  in  their  presence 
at  a  cuisine  which  she  knew  they  must  be  finding  epi- 
curean. As  a  rule  she  and  Oliphant  dined  lightly, 
but  when  her  family  remained,  she  ordered  four  or 
five  courses,  and  was  chagrined  if  his  refusal  of 
chartreuse  betrayed  that  they  did  not  have  liqueurs 
every  evening. 

Oliphant  repeated  his  assurance  that  he  would 
read  The  Alienist — which  might  be  a  good  play 
handicapped  by  a  bad  title — and  the  author  obviously 
considered  that  perusal  implied  acceptance,  for  his 
manner  became  quite  genial  before  the  hour  arrived 
for  the  husband  and  wife  to  betake  themselves  to 
their  respective  stages.  When  the  promise  was  ful- 
filled, however,  Royce  found  that  the  drama  pos- 
sessed all  the  faults  of  Mr.  Mundey's;  and  he  was 
for  the  first  time  profoundly  thankful  that  he  had 
not  married  a  devoted  daughter. 

Alma,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  they  parted  in 
Brighton,  was  discovered  to  be  on  tour  with  the 
Hamiltons,  and  having  ascertained  her  whereabouts, 
he  said  to  Blanche: 

"By  the  way,  I  see  Miss  King  is  in  Rochdale  this 
week.  We  grew  rather  heated  the  other  day  about 
nothing.  Of  course  I  don't  want  her  in  the  theatre 
against  your  wishes,  but  if  she  proves  as  good  as 
anybody  else,  I  suppose  you've  really  nothing  against 
the  arrangement,  have  you?" 


254  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

Blanche  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Why  should  I  have?"  she  said,  not  unamiably. 
"If  she  is  good,  engage  her!" 

Oliphant  wrote  to  Alma  the  same  day,  a  letter, 
which  gave  him  a  glow  of  happiness.  He  told  her 
that  in  all  probability  he  and  his  wife  would  open 
the  Mayfair  towards  the  end  of  the  following  year, 
and  he  hoped  that  she  would  be  free  to  come  to  them. 
The  sentence  in  which  he  mentioned  the  word 
"salary"  was  a  little  difficult  to  phrase,  for  while  he 
was  delighted  to  put  money  in  her  pocket,  he  hated 
to  have  to  talk  about  it.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  written  to  her,  and  he  was  surprised,  when  he 
had  finished,  to  see  that  he  had  covered  six  pages. 
But  there  had  been  so  much  to  say  about  the  piece, 
and  his  certainty  that  she  would  feel  the  part. 

Her  reply  was  briefer,  but  he  seemed  to  hear  her 
speaking.  "Can  I  say  anything  more  than  'Thank 
you  with  all  my  heart'?"  she  wrote.  Yet  she  had 
found  more  to  say;  and  almost  he  could  divine  where 
she  had  paused  with  the  sudden  fear  that  her  pen  was 
running  away  with  her. 

It  was  already  close  upon  Christmas,  and  soon 
the  Hamiltons'  tour  must  be  ending.  He  would 
have  liked  to  ask  Alma  to  call  upon  him  and  Blanche 
when  she  returned  to  town,  but  shrank  now  from 
speaking  of  her  any  more  than  he  was  compelled. 
When  Christmas  came,  he  momentarily  entertained 
the  idea  of  going  to  Burton  Crescent,  in  the  hope 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  255 

that  she  might  be  staying  there  again.  But  it  would 
not  be  quite  the  thing!  he  dismissed  the  notion. 

The  contract  for  the  Mayfair  was  signed  in  Jan- 
uary, and  after  that  the  poet's  progress  with 
Lacour's  play,  and  the  models  of  the  scenes,  and 
a  score  of  matters  demanding  attention  crowded 
thick  upon  one  another's  heels. 

With  the  knowledge  that  they  would  crowd  more 
thickly  still  as  the  year  advanced,  Oliphant  some- 
times wondered  what  time  the  business  cares  of  the- 
atrical management  would  leave  him  to  remember 
that  he  was  an  actor  too. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Blanche  had  considered  that  the  auditorium  was 
shabby.  She  had  stood  between  Otho  and  Oliphant 
in  the  stalls  one  morning,  and  plucked  disconsolately 
at  a  loose  piece  of  gimp  on  one  of  the  chairs.  On 
the  way  back  to  the  flat,  it  had  been  apparent  that 
she  longed  to  see  them  newly  upholstered  before  they 
opened  the  theatre,  and  when  Otho  suggested  their 
renovation,  the  delighted  smile  that  lit  her  face  had 
answered  him  before  she  spoke.  There  had  been  a 
cheerful  discussion  about  the  material  to  be  em- 
ployed, Oliphant  and  she  holding  different  views. 
Otho  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  the  more  effective 
scheme  would  be  the  one  advocated  by  Blanche,  and 
thenceforward  she  had  had  further  ideas  on  the  sub- 
ject daily. 

He  spent  eight  hundred  pounds  in  gratifying  her 
whims — if  he  had  had  a  long  lease,  he  would  have 
had  the  house  redecorated — and  behind  the  curtain 
the  services  of  the  best  scenic  artists  had  been  sought, 
and  the  Company  boldly  organized.  The  salary  list, 
indeed,  was  much  higher  than  the  figure  at  which 
it  had  been  originally  estimated,  but  the  dress- 
rehearsal  amply  justified  the  selections  that  had  been 

256 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  257 

made.  Every  part  was  rendered  well,  and  even 
Blanche  did  not  deny  that  Alma  as  "Astolaine"  was 
very  good. 

Otho  echoed  the  pronouncement.  He  and  Blanche 
sat  in  the  rehabilitated  stalls  during  the  scenes  in 
which  she  could  escape  from  the  stage,  watching  the 
progress  of  the  rehearsal  together.  He  found  the 
evening  very  interesting;  and  although  he  was  de- 
pressed when  the  thunder  or  lightning  came  at  the 
wrong  moments,  the  frenzy  that  such  blunders  begot, 
and  the  excited  altercations  that  ensued,  added  a 
strong  element  of  humor  to  his  inexperience.  There 
was  a  fascination,  too,  in  sitting  beside  Blanche, 
swayed  by  the  same  interests,  and  exchanging  criti- 
cisms with  her.  The  strangeness  of  the  woman's 
attire,  her  accentuated  eyebrows,  and  the  color  on 
her  cheeks,  all  emphasized  the  novelty  of  the  situa- 
tion; and  once,  in  commenting  on  the  sleeves  of  her 
costume,  when  she  took  his  hand  and  passed  it  down 
her  arm,  he  felt  a  wave  of  emotion  which  a  few 
months  earlier  would  have  astonished  him. 

Of  a  truth,  Otho  had  awakened  to  the  fact  that 
he  admired  Blanche  more  than  was  desirable — not 
for  his  own  peace,  but  for  ethics.  His  mental  state 
was  so  very  undefined  that  it  permitted  him  to  assure 
himself  that  he  was  supersensitive  and  absurd  to  see 
anything  wrong  in  it.  Nevertheless,  perceiving  that 
he  was  regarding  his  friend's  wife  somewhat  dif- 
ferently from  the  way  in  which  he  would  have  wished 


258  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

to  regard  her,  there  had  been  one  or  two  occasions 
on  which  he  had  not  failed  to  be  distressed. 

There  was  no  room  for  distress  in  his  mind,  how- 
ever, on  the  following  night.  He  was  infected  by 
the  fever  that  pervaded  the  menage  in  Green  Street 
— where  Blanche  and  Oliphant  had  obtained  a  fur- 
nished house.  As  he  took  his  seat  in  his  box,  he 
was  reminded  of  the  sensations  with  which  he  had 
sometimes  entered  a  Grand  Stand.  Royce,  who  was 
looking  tired  and  ill,  had  been  in  the  theatre  till 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  then  driven  home,  to 
snatch  a  hasty  meal,  and  endeavor  to  rest.  The  cur- 
tain rose  on  God  and  the  State  at  eight  o'clock,  and 
by  8.30  a  fashionable  audience  had  assembled  in  the 
Mayfair  Theatre.  The  Pit  had  ceased  to  cry  uSsh !" 
and  it  was  no  longer  necessary  for  people  to  keep 
rising  in  order  that  late-comers,  who  showed  no  con- 
sciousness of  their  discourtesy,  might  pass  them. 

The  actor-manager's  nervousness  was  painfully 
apparent  during  his  first  lines,  but  Blanche  had  her 
voice  under  better  control.  After  Royce,  the  artist 
whose  nervousness  was  most  visible  was  Alma,  pas- 
sionately eager  to  justify  Oliphant's  faith  in  her. 
Otho  fancied  he  could  detect  through  his  glasses  that 
her  lips  trembled. 

The  atmosphere  seemed  to  gather  spirit  by  de- 
grees, and  his  craving  for  a  strong  whisky  and  soda 
and  a  cigarette  grew  less  intense.  But  he  remarked 
for  the  first  time  how  cold  at  its  best  was  his  ac- 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  259 

quaintances'  well-bred  attitude  towards  a  theatrical 
performance;  and  then  with  an  anxiety  which  he  had 
never  imagined  that  journalists  could  be  capable  of 
inspiring  under  his  shirt-front,  he  glanced  specu- 
latively at  the  rows  of  Press  men,  and  at  a  box 
opposite,  where  one  critic  sat  alone. 

The  curtain  fell  at  twenty  minutes  past  eleven, 
and  a  number  of  the  fashionable  audience  that  had 
come  in  late,  trooped  through  the  pass-door  to  the 
stage,  where  Blanche  was  a  triumphant  hostess. 
The  play,  they  exclaimed,  was  a  "dream,"  it  was 
"sweet,"  it  was  "quite  too  delightful  upon  their 
honor."  Where  the  poetry  had  been  spoken  there 
was  now  a  gush  of  insincere  congratulation.  Many 
of  the  smiling  visitors  thought  the  performance 
dreadfully  dull,  as  did  the  majority  of  the  pit  and 
gallery,  who  had  coughed  and  shuffled  with  irritating 
frequency  during  some  of  the  scenes.  But  in  the  flow 
of  felicitation,  six  months  was  the  shortest  run  that 
anybody  permitted  himself  to  prophesy. 

However,  most  of  the  "notices"  could  be  called 
favorable  to  the  production.  Some  insisted  that  La- 
cour  was  a  lyric  poet,  and  not  a  dramatist,  limiting 
their  approval  to  the  way  the  work  had  been 
Englished,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  played; 
a  few  praised  it  unreservedly.  There  were  plenty  of 
excerpts  to  be  made  for  advertising  purposes,  "the 
good  quotable  line"  being  absent  only  from  the  opin- 
ions of  the  novices,  who  were  learning  syntax  by 


26o  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"criticizing"  for  the  less  important  periodicals.  It 
now  remained  to  be  seen  how  God  and  the  State 
would  be  supported  by  the  Public. 

Blanche  and  Otho  were  sanguine,  though  the  re- 
ceipts were  not  immediately  all  that  could  be  wished; 
they  whom  misgivings  already  oppressed  were  Oli- 
phant,  and  the  woman  whom  the  Press  had  agreed 
to  describe  as  "an  actress  of  conspicuous  ability, 
hitherto  unknown  to  London."  Eve  -y  evening  when 
he  came  off,  in  the  first  Act,  by  the  door  at  which 
she  was  waiting  to  make  her  earliest  entrance,  Alma 
looked  an  inquiry,  and  he  stopped  to  answer  it.  But 
there  was  really  no  need  for  him  to  say  that  the 
house  was  bad  again — she  could  read  it  in  his  face; 
nor  did  it  need  words  from  her  to  tell  him  that  she 
was  the  only  person  who  understood  how  much  he 
had  at  stake. 

Between  these  two,  whom  Life — which  has  no 
construction  and  no  moral — had  once  thrown  to- 
gether, and  speedily  separated,  who  had  met  again  by 
chance  when  the  weaker  one  was  married,  and  been 
again  divided  by  circumstances  until  the  man's  pur- 
pose brought  the  woman  into  his  own  theatre,  there 
had  always  been  a  sympathy,  which  now  grew 
stronger  daily.  Daily,  Oliphant  looked  forward 
with  greater  eagerness  to  their  next  conversation,  and 
remembered  more  vividly  their  preceding  one.  And 
meanwhile  his  home  became  less  and  less  congenial. 
Blanche,  with  a  well-appointed  house  in  a  fashionable 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  261 

quarter,  did  not  allow  her  opportunities  to  be  fet- 
tered by  the  theatre  receipts.  She  had  removed  to 
Green  Street  in  order  to  entertain,  and  she  was  re- 
solved to  fulfil  her  intention.  Her  social  functions 
seemed  to  him  incessant,  and  from  any  one  of  them 
the  actor-manager  would  joyfully  have  escaped  to 
take  his  way  to  the  lodgings  in  Bloomsbury  that  held 
Alma.  He  knew  no  more  of  her  lodgings  than  their 
address,  for  she  had  not  been  asked  to  Green  Street. 
That  his  wife  had  omitted  to  invite  her  was  due 
to  indifference,  and  not  to  any  objection  to  Royce's 
conversations  with  Miss  King.  Their  conversations, 
since  he  had  proclaimed  that  they  were  such  devoted 
friends,  she  found  natural  enough.  Moreover,  she 
would  have  been  unwilling  to  do  him  the  honor  of 
evincing  jealousy,  unless  there  had  been  a  scandal 
which  compelled  her  to  insist  that  the  other  woman, 
whoever  she  might  be,  should  leave  the  theatre. 
Blanche  was  too  much  elated  to  be  jealous.  True, 
the  business  remained  bad,  but  her  passion  for  para- 
graphs was  now  gratified  abundantly,  and  at  the 
worst,  God  and  the  State  would  prove  a  failure. 
Kirtland's  drama  would  be  a  hit,  she  supposed — 
his  name  alone  was  a  draw — and  then  the  failure 
would  be  retrieved.  But  she  was  sorry  for  Otho, 
because  to  him  there  had  not  been  any  benefit  what- 
ever from  the  venture.  He  was  so  "gentlemanly 
about  the  'returns' !"  And  really  it  was  "some- 
thing" to  be  looked  at  again  by  a  man  who  was  in 


262  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

love  with  her !  Of  course  there  were  plenty  of  men 
who  tried  to  look  as  if  they  were — through  single 
eye-glasses  in  every  drawing-room.  But  that  was 
only  because  she  was  on  the  stage,  and  with  the 
ignorance  of  the  outsider,  they  thought  that  all 
actresses  were  to  be  had.  Otho  was  really  in  love 
with  her.  Poor  fellow,  how  happy  he  would  have 
been  as  her  husband! 

A  woman's  reflections  cannot  progress  so  far  as 
this  without  her  manner  altering  towards  the  man; 
and  it  was  when  Blanche's  manner  first  altered,  that 
Otho  perceived  with  poignant  self-reproach  that  he 
could  no  longer  apply  salve  to  his  conscience  by  the 
terms  "supersensitive"  and  "absurd."  He  was  at 
this  period  strong  enough  to  leave  London,  if  there 
had  been  no  reason  for  his  remaining,  but  he  was 
weak  enough  to  find  sufficient  reason  in  his  interest 
in  the  Mayfair.  Unable  now  to  deny  his  sentiments, 
he  to-day  assuaged  remorse  by  assuring  himself  that 
they  didn't  matter,  because  she  would  never  know. 

That  he  must  sustain  a  heavy  loss  by  the  initial 
production  was  speedily  apparent,  and  it  was  decided 
that  Kirtland's  drama  should  be  put  into  rehearsal 
when  God  and  the  State  had  been  running  three 
weeks.  Oliphant  felt  needlessly  guilty,  but  he  was 
confident  that  they  were  now  about  to  rehearse  a 
work  which  would  attract  all  London. 

Kirtland,  being  a  dramatist  with  a  literary  repu- 
tation and  an  independence,  had  reached  the  point 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  263 

where  he  could  afford  to  be  courageous,  and  as  he 
was  a  writer  of  brilliant  ability,  his  courage  had 
fascinating  results.  Already  he  had  written  two 
plays  of  psychological  interest  which  had  been  great 
artistic  successes,  and  in  The  Average  Man  he  had 
at  last  dared  to  say  all  he  thought.  Had  he  deliber- 
ately sat  down  to  controvert  Theophile  Gautier's 
dictum  that  the  Theatre  never  becomes  possessed 
of  an  idea  until  Fiction  has  worn  it  threadbare,  he 
could  not  have  made  a  bolder  experiment.  To  Oli- 
phant  it  appeared  to  be  one  that  would  emancipate 
the  English  stage  and  make  an  epoch. 

He  had  lent  the  manuscript  to  Alma,  and  he 
awaited  her  opinion  more  anxiously  than  he  had 
asked  for  Otho's;  far  more  anxiously  than  he  had 
asked  his  wife's. 

"It's  magnificent!"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  if 
his  view  is  right,  but  it's  a  view  to  hear,  and  to 
think  about.  And  the  dialogue — the  grip  of  it! 
Did  you  say  I  was  to  play  'Mrs.  Ivery'?" 

"I  hope  you  like  the  part?"  He  believed  that 
she  would  have  played  the  heroine's  better,  but  nat- 
urally Blanche  must  have  that,  though  she  would  not 
be  so  subtle  in  it. 

She  read  his  thought,  as  she  read  all  he  had:  "I 
like  it  very  much,"  she  replied  quickly.  "I  like  my 
part,  and  I  admire  the  play — it's  worthy  of  the 
Dream  Theatre.  Oh,  please  Heaven,  it  will  be  all 
right!    I  pray  for  it." 


264  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

uOur  Dream  Theatre  has  opened  badly,"  he  said. 

She  nodded.     "But  it  will  come  1" 

"With  this?" 

"I  think  so." 

"You  need  never  go  back  to  four  or  five  pounds 
a  week  in  the  provinces  anyhow!"  exclaimed  Oli- 
phant, after  a  pause. 

"Ah,  don't  say  'anyhow' !  And  I  wasn't  thinking 
of  myself  when  I  said  that  I  prayed." 

"I  know.    Only  I'm  glad,  at  least,  that " 

"You  will  have  much  more  to  be  glad  about !  But 
I  thank  you.  You've  done  a  great  deal  for  me,  Mr. 
Oliphant — I  shall  never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live." 

"I  don't  want  your  thanks,"  he  said;  "I  hate  your 
thanks.  If  you've  talent,  thank  God  for  it — /  didn't 
give  it  to  you.  I  want  your  friendship;  and  every 
time  you  'thank'  me  you  make  me  a  stranger  to  you." 

When  her  cue  came,  Oliphant  went  down  to  his 
dressing-room,  realizing,  as  he  had  realized  before, 
that  he  had  uttered  a  lie.  It  was  not  her  friendship 
that  he  wanted,  but  her  love.  He  loved  her.  He 
loved  the  timbre  of  her  voice,  and  the  frou-frou  of 
her  skirt,  and  inanimate  things  that  she  had  hal- 
lowed by  her  touch.  He  loved  her  with  the  mind 
that  she  had  dominated,  and  the  soul  that  was  ren- 
dered greater  by  his  love.  He  loved  her  too  truly 
ever  to  tell  her  the  truth!  Again  a  man  believed 
that  he  could  love  without  the  woman  knowing  it. 
If  he  had  been  free,  and  could  have  won  her,  tri- 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  265 

umphs  would  have  been  transfigured  and  failures 
robbed  of  their  sting;  if  he  had  been  free,  he  would 
have  won  her,  and  life  could  hold  no  more  than 
that!  Once  happiness  had  been  within  his  reach, 
and  he  had  blundered  by  it.  To-day  he  looked  back, 
empty-handed,  from  a  celibacy  that  had  no  rights. 
But  though  he  could  never  touch  her  lips,  she  was 
his  Ideal;  and  that  he  might  be  worthy  to  worship 
her  he  would  always  be  faithful  to  his  wife !  Temp- 
tation was  not  avoiding  him — it  was  in  the  front  of 
his  theatre  often,  and  in  his  own  house,  and  in  the 
drawing-rooms  of  others;  but  to  Oliphant  it  had 
seemed  that  to  break  his  marriage-oath  would  make 
him  guilty,  not  towards  Blanche,  not  towards  God, 
but  towards  Alma  King.  Lowered  by  an  intrigue, 
he  could  not  have  met  her  eyes.  Herself  he  would 
not  have  taken  had  she  been  willing  to  come  to  him 
— and  he  would  not  insult  her  by  accepting  anything 
less. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  Average  Man  was  eulogized  by  those  or- 
gans which  embody  the  views  of  the  critical  for  the 
delectation  of  the  cultured;  it  was  received  with  re- 
spect by  the  entire  Press;  it  was  even  commented  on 
by  the  Public.  It  did  not,  of  course,  excite  the  in- 
terest aroused  by  a  cricket-match,  but  its  thesis  was 
mentioned;  there  were  a  great  many  people  in  Lon- 
don who  said  "Fancy!" 

However,  though  Oliphant  had  continued  to  play 
it  for  two  months,  and  hoped  against  hope,  the 
drama  was  a  financial  failure,  and  this  time  Blanche 
was  not  a  whit  less  anxious  than  he,  for  the  rent,  and 
the  servants,  and  the  cost  of  her  luncheon  and  din- 
ner parties,  swelled  the  household  expenses  to  a 
sum  which  was  by  no  means  covered  by  her  and 
Royce's  salary.  Besides  being  anxious,  she  was  in- 
censed, for  the  less  ardent  of  the  newspapers  had 
questioned  whether  the  subject  was  one  "calculated 
to  attract  the  general  playgoer,  who,  as  we  have 
often  insisted,  seeks  before  all  things  to  be  amused," 
etc.,  and  she  blamed  Royce  bitterly  for  his  lack  of 
judgment.     She  might  have  foreseen  the  issue,  she 

266 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  267 

felt:  she  had  obtained  a  theatre  for  him,  and  now 
his  idiosyncrasies  were  going  to  ruin  them ! 

Otho  had  denied  himself  Green  Street  for  more 
than  a  fortnight  when  he  came  one  morning  in  re- 
sponse to  a  note  from  her.  It  was  not  accidental  that 
he  found  her  alone,  for  she  had  appointed  the 
morning. 

"I'm  frightfully  worried,"  she  declared  when  he 
had  lighted  a  cigarette.  "Don't  I  look  dreadful? 
Don't  I?  I  feel  a  hundred.  You  know  you  must 
be  firm !  You  promised  me  you  would  be.  I  told 
you  six  weeks  ago  this  thing  was  a  frost.  Now 
Royce  is  considering  a  play  that's  simply  fore- 
doomed, and  he  says  he  has  talked  to  you  about  it. 
You  should  object!  You  must  tell  him  that  you 
want  your  theatre  to  pay." 

"Royce  wants  it  to  pay,  you  know,"  he  said  un- 
easily; "I — I  can't  very  well  take  an  attitude  that 
looks  like It's  nobody's  fault  up  to  the  pres- 
ent, is  it?  The  pieces  have  been  good  enough, 
Heaven  knows!" 

"I've  warned  you,"  she  sighed;  "I  can't  do  any 
more.  But,  I  tell  you,  I  feel  simply  miserable  when 
I  think  what  you've  lost — if  it  hadn't  been  for  me 
we  shouldn't  have  had  the  theatre !" 

"Oh,  don't  talk  like  that;  we  shall  have  a  big  suc- 
cess directly,  and " 

"Never,"  she  said  emphatically.  "Believe  me, 
Mr.  Fairbairnv  'never'!     Unless  Royce  is  checked — 


268  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

if  you  don't  make  a  stand — we  shall  have  one  failure 
after  the  other.  It  will  mean  thousands  to  you,  and 
it  will  mean — well,  I  don't  know  what  it  will  mean 
to  us!  The  Bankruptcy  Court  I  suppose !  We  can't 
go  on  like  this  long." 

"I  was  afraid  your  affairs  couldn't  be  altogether 
roseate;  I've  been  thinking  about  it.  I — if — of 
course  if  there  has  been  bad  judgment,  it's  been  as 
much  mine  as  Royce's,  and — and  it's  only  right  that 
I  should  share  the  responsibility.  I  must  have  a  chat 
with  him.    There  needn't  be  any  duns,  Mrs.  Royce." 

"Do  you  think  I'd  let  Royce  borrow  money  from 
you?"  she  exclaimed.  "Yes,  I  know,  you'd  lend  it 
gladly — you'd  do  anything  for  us  I  believe !  but  I 
wouldn't  let  him  take  it.  And  besides  I  couldn't  if 
I  wanted  to." 

"Why?    How  do  you  mean  you  'couldn't'?" 

"Because  Royce  doesn't  quite  know  the  state  we 
are  in.     And  I  don't  want  to  tell  him." 

"It  needn't  bother  him  if  he  can  put  things  right. 
It  would  be  only  a  loan.  When  the  success  does 
come " 

"I  didn't  mean  because  he'd  be  bothered,"  she 
said;  "at  least,  not  only  that.  You  see  /  insisted 
on  this  house,  and  asked  the  people  here,  and  made 
the  debts.  I  did  it  for  the  best;  the  policy  was  right 
enough — if  the  business  had  been  decent,  there 
wouldn't  have  been  any  trouble ;  but  /'m  the  'culprit' ! 
I  don't  want  Royce  to  turn  round  on  me — as  he 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  269 

would — and  reproach  me.  That  would  be  the  last 
straw!" 

"Oh,"  cried  Otho,  "how  could  he  reproach  you? 
He  wouldn't!" 

Her  eyebrows  rose.  "Wouldn't  he?  But  it  isn't 
a  question  of  money.  I  only  want  you  to  use  your 
authority — to  have  the  theatre  conducted  on  proper 
lines.  There's  a  piece  now  in  Paris  just  produced — 
a  piece  of  Reybaud's;  there's  a  notice  of  it  in  the 
Era  this  week.  It  could  be  bought,  it  could  be 
adapted,  and  might  make  a  fortune  for  us.  But  no  ! 
Royce  wants  a  'masterpiece'  that  is  going  to  bring 
us  to  the  workhouse  instead.  Oh,  it  drives  me  mad 
to  think  about  it!" 

"Why  not  speak  to  him  of  Reybaud's  piece?"  sug- 
gested Otho.  "/  couldn't  urge  it  much  because  I'm 
no  judge;  but  you — you  might  propose  it,  and  use 
your  influence  with  Royce." 

"  'Influence' !"  she  echoed.  "Do  you  really 
imagine  that  I've  any  influence  with  Royce?"  She 
laughed.  "Why,  my  dear  boy,  I've  no  more  influ- 
ence over  Royce  than  I  have  over  the  Prime 
Minister!" 

"Do  you  mean  that "  He  looked  at  her  in- 
credulously. "Do  you  mean  that  your  advice — your 
request — would  have  no  weight  with  him  ?  Wouldn't 
he  pay  any  attention  to  it?" 

"Certainly  not!"  she  said.  She  met  the  young 
man's  startled  eyes  for  some  seconds  significantly. 


270  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

Then  In  a  quiet  voice,  and  without  lowering  her  gaze, 
she  added:  "Royce  and  I  have  been  strangers  for 
more  than  two  years." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  Otho  stared  dizzily 
at  the  fire.  The  suddenness  with  which  she  had  leapt 
the  limit  of  conventional  utterance  gave  him  a  sen- 
sation resembling  fright,  and  he  could  think  of  no 
words  for  answer.  At  last  he  stammered  with  an 
effort: 

uOf  course  I'll  try  to  do  what  you  wish,  with 
pleasure.  I'm  awfully  grieved  to  hear  that  things 
are  wrong;  I  always  thought  that  you  and  he  were 
so  happy  together." 

She  smiled  faintly,  a  little  to  one  side,  her  nether- 
lip  indented  by  her  teeth. 

"I'm  the  loneliest  woman  in  the  world." 

The  compassion  in  his  face  was  delicious  to  her, 
and,  watching  him,  she  was  sincerely  sorry  for  her- 
self. Words  now  thronged  his  mind  only  too  in- 
sistently, and  he  sat  torn  between  the  desire  to  tell 
her  how  deeply  he  sympathized  with  he*r,  and  the 
knowledge  that  if  he  obeyed  the  impulse,  he  would 
surely  say  something  that  would  make  it  impossible 
for  him  to  take  Oliphant's  hand  any  more. 

"Don't  look  like  that,"  she  murmured.  "It 
doesn't  matter!" 

"What  can  I  say?"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  so  hard 
for  a  man  to  show  a  woman  whom  he  mustn't — 
who  is  no  relation  to  him  that  he's  sorry  for  her!" 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  27  I 

"You  needn't  say  anything — I  know  you're  sorry." 

"It  wasn't  two  years  ago  when  we  had  our  first 
talk  about  the  theatre !"  he  said  after  another  pause. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  know." 

"And  you  were  then ?" 

She  nodded.  "But  I  was  fond  of  him  still  and 
ambitious  for  him.  A  woman  doesn't  become  indif- 
ferent at  once." 

His  eyes  filled.  She  seemed  to  him  all  that  was 
noble  and  strong  to  endure. 

"Ah,  don't!  Ah,  Silly  Billy,"  she  said  half  play- 
fully, half  tenderly,  "you  mustn't/" 

Otho  turned  aside,  and  lit  another  cigarette  with 
fingers  that  trembled  a  little. 

"You've  cut  me  up  horribly,"  he  muttered.  "I 
wish  to  God  I  could  do  something  for  you !" 

"You  have,  with  your  friendship.  I  don't  know 
anybody  I  could  have  talked  to  like  this  but  you." 

"We  are  friends,  aren't  we?"  he  asked.  "We  al- 
ways shall  be?" 

"I'm  sure  we  shall!" 

"Well,  let  me  do  what  I  suggested  just  now,"  he 
said  eagerly.  "I  don't  mean  to  let  me  speak  to  Royce 
about  it,  but  to  arrange  it  with  you.  It  isn't  much, 
but  I  shan't  feel  so  infernally  useless !  If  you'll  only 
give  me  an  idea  of  the  sum,  I'll  post  a  cheque  this 
afternoon.  Will  you?  Let  me  put  an  end  to  your 
money  worries,  do !" 

He  had  fulfilled  a  hope  that  had  awakened  in  her 


272  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

ten  minutes  ago.  It  had  then  occurred  to  her  that 
the  loan  made  to  herself  privately  would  dispose  of 
the  difficulties,  and  spare  her  the  unpleasantness  of 
owning  their  full  extent  to  Oliphant;  but  now,  while 
her  perception  of  the  circumstances  remained  quite 
as  acute,  sentiment  forbade  her  to  take  advantage  of 
the  young  man's  love  for  her.  She  would  have  done 
it  ten,  five,  two  minutes  ago — but  the  tears  had  come 
into  his  eyes  about  her;  she  shook  her  head. 

Nor  could  all  his  persuasions  move  her  outwardly, 
though  inwardly  she  wavered  often,  and  hoped  he 
would  believe  her  obdurate  before  she  lost  her  foot- 
ing on  these  unaccustomed  heights.  When  he  had 
gone,  regretful,  she  thought  of  him  with  admiration 
for  having  raised  her  so  much  in  her  self-esteem. 

To  complete  Oliphant's  unhappiness,  and  to 
darken  his  outlook,  it  had  only  needed  that  he  should 
be  required  to  stultify  the  expressed  purpose  for 
which  a  theatre  had  been  leased.  By  Blanche's  argu- 
ments that  they  could  not  be  popular  socially  unless 
the  receipts  enabled  them  to  entertain,  he  had  been 
uninfluenced — he  did  not  seek  social  popularity,  and 
between  reaping  the  profit  that  would  content  her, 
and  justifying  Fairbairn's  experiment,  there  was  a 
wide  difference.  He  had  been  firm  in  the  face  of 
their  increasing  liabilities,  merely  praying  that  their 
expenditure  might  in  future  be  reduced;  he  had  been 
as  resolute  as  he  could  be  as  an  actor-manager  with 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  273 

a  backer.  But  when  the  backer  joined  forces  with 
the  actor-manager's  wife,  confidence  collapsed. 

Nevertheless  the  artist  did  not  succumb  immedi- 
ately; he  proposed  Shakespeare  as  a  compromise. 
In  London,  if  not  in  the  provinces,  he  urged,  Shake- 
speare could  be  made  to  pay,  ameliorated  by  elabo- 
rate scenery,  as  a  powder  by  a  tablespoonful  of  jam. 
Shakespeare  might  prove  successful,  and  Shakespeare 
would  be  Art;  but  Blanche  did  not  want  to  play 
Shakespeare,  and  she  harped  on  Felix  Reybaud's  La 
Curiense,  the  latest  product  of  a  playwright  who  was 
sincere  in  nothing  but  his  desire  to  tickle  the  public 
taste;  a  piece  which  owed  its  success  in  Paris,  not  to 
its  characterization,  not  to  any  insight  into  life,  but 
to  a  gratuitous  immorality  and  "le  doigte  du  drama- 
turge." 

Oliphant  shrank  from  confessing  this  new  trouble 
to  Alma;  he  felt  that  it  would  be  soon  enough  to 
speak  of  defeat  when  he  had  agreed  to  surrender; 
but  for  the  first  time  Blanche  suspected  that  she  was 
encouraging  his  views.  Umbrage  had  already  been 
taken  at  several  of  the  Press  notices,  which  had  in- 
timated that  "Miss  King's  acting  had  the  rare  and 
indefinable  quality  of  intellectuality,"  the  word 
"rare"  being  found  an  insult  by  implication.  Orig- 
inally one  critic  had  said  it,  but  there  had  poured 
in  a  multitude  of  cuttings  from  newspapers  pub- 
lished in  almost  every  county  in  the  kingdom;  and 
as  some  of  the  obscurer  journals  inserted  the  Lon- 


274  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

don  criticisms  verbatim  as  the  opinions  of  imaginary 
''correspondents,"  the  manageress  had  had  the  an- 
noyance of  reading  the  objectionable  sentence  more 
than  once.  The  suspicion  aroused  in  her  now  in- 
creased the  disfavor  with  which  she  had  begun  to 
regard  Miss  King,  and  as  a  culminating  offence, 
Alma  chanced,  on  the  evening  of  the  discussion,  to 
receive  some  applause  at  a  point  where  hitherto  none 
had  occurred.  The  scene  was  one  between  her  and 
Blanche,  who  stood  for  two  or  three  seconds  at  a 
disadvantage.  It  was  resentfully  referred  to  directly 
they  were  together  in  the  wings. 

"What  was  the  meaning  of  that  'round,'  Miss 
King?  You've  never  had  a  'hand'  there  till  to- 
night?" 

"I  was  surprised  myself,"  answered  Alma.  "But 
I  think  I  felt  the  lines  more  than  usual." 

"Well,  the  next  time  you're  going  to  feel  them 
perhaps  you'll  let  me  know !"  said  Blanche  sharply. 
"I  don't  want  to  be  put  out  by  your  applause  again !" 

But  her  irritation  was  too  complex  to  evaporate 
in  a  rebuke.  To  herself  she  said  that  since  King's 
influence  was  supporting  Royce  in  his  folly,  she 
shouldn't  remain  at  the  Mayfair.  Momentarily  she 
questioned  if  she  was  mistaking  the  nature  of  the  in- 
fluence. But  no ;  she  did  not  think  that !  Royce  was 
deceiving  her  doubtless,  but  not  with  King;  and  the 
credit,  she  should  imagine,  was  the  woman's ! 

Creditable  or  not,  however,  she  did  not  want  her 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  275 

in  the  Company,  and  she  trusted  that  La  Curieuse, 
if  they  secured  it,  would  prove  to  contain  no  part  for 
her.  The  argument  about  the  piece  was  repeated  in 
Green  Street  the  following  afternoon.  Otho  was 
lunching  there,  and  Oliphant  again  dwelt  upon  his 
wish  to  revive  a  Shakespearian  play. 

"But  Mrs.  Royce  doesn't  care  for  the  idea,"  said 
Otho.  "What  is  your  objection  to  Reybaud?  I  al- 
ways understood  that  he  was  first-rate." 

"Well,  of  course  he  is  I"  Blanche  exclaimed. 
"We  mayn't  be  able  to  get  the  thing  if  we  try — 
there'll  be  twenty  people  after  it!  Reybaud?  If 
Reybaud  hasn't  a  great  reputation,  I'm  an  amateur, 
Royce,  I  know  nothing  about  the  Stage !  Who  in 
Paris  has,  then?" 

"It  depends  what  you  mean  by  'reputation,'  "  said 
Oliphant  wearily.  "His  name  is  very  widely  known; 
the  crowd  think  him  a  very  clever  man.  If  that  is 
'reputation,'  you're  quite  right." 

"Well,  I  should  certainly  say  it  was!"  she  an- 
swered.    She  glanced  at  Otho:   "Wouldn't  you?" 

"I  must  admit,  old  chap,"  he  murmured,  "I  think 
that  you're  inclined  to  be  hypercritical.  I'm  fairly 
well-read,  and  I  flatter  myself  I'm  not  devoid  of 
taste,  but  Reybaud's  plays  are  quite  good  enough  for 
me." 

Oliphant  drummed  his  fingers  restlessly  on  the 
cloth.     "Do  you  ask  as  much  from  the  Theatre  as 


276  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

you  do  from  your  books?"  he  returned.  "Does  Rey- 
baud  satisfy  you  in  the  library?" 

"I've  never  read  him.  But  I've  seen  two  or  three 
of  his  pieces,  and,  I'm  bound  to  say,  enjoyed  them." 

"And  anyhow,"  said  Blanche,  "it  isn't  a  question 
of  the  library;  it  isn't  the  question  whether  he's 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent — the  question  is  whether 
he  succeeds." 

Otho  was  silent,  and  Oliphant  looked  at  him  in- 
quiringly. 

"Is  that  your  view  too?"  he  asked;  "it  wasn't  the 
view  you  held  when  we  took  the  theatre !  You  knew 
what  my  aim  was  from  the  beginning.  Heaven 
knows  you  can't  be  sorrier  than  I  am  for  the  way 
things  have  gone  so  far,  but  it  was  never  understood 
between  us  that  if  fine  work  spelt  failure,  I  was  to 
play  rubbish  to  retrieve  it.  I  don't  want  a  theatre 
to  play  rubbish;  I'd  rather  have  none  than  be  in 
Management  to  give  the  lie  to  the  intentions  I've 
expressed  all  my  life."  He  turned  to  Blanche.  "If 
you  don't  care  for  nine-tenths  of  Shakespeare,  surely 
there's  one  character  that  attracts  you?  Is  there  no 
choice  between  the  best  modern  work  and  Felix 
Reybaud?" 

Otho  replied  for  her,  with  affected  lightness. 

"Dear  old  man,"  he  said,  fidgeting  with  his  coffee 
spoon,  "aren't  you  taking  the  matter  too  seriously? 
If  we — er — if  we  made  a  mistake  when  we  opened 
the  house — and  I  suppose  we  did  make  a  mistake ! — 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  277 

it  seems  to  me  that  we  should  make  a  bigger  one 
still  if  we  were  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it.  When 
all  is  said,  the  Theatre  is  the  Theatre,  it's  a  place  of 
entertainment;  aren't  you  rather  apt  to  forget  that? 
What  is  it  Austin  Dobson  says  ? — 

'Parnassus'  peaks  still  catch  the  sun; 

But  why,  O  lyric  brother! 
Why  build  a  pulpit  on  the  one, 

A  platform  on  the  other?' 

I  think  it  applies,  Royce." 

Oliphant  had  turned  very  white,  and  the  last 
vestige  of  hope  sank  from  his  heart.  He  nodded 
slowly. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "perhaps  the  pulpit  is  too  strong 
in  me  !  But  circumstances  are  stronger,  aren't  they? 
We  won't  argue  any  more;  we'll  try  to  get  La 
Curieuse" 

Now,  when  he  was  beaten,  he  longed  for  Alma's 
consolation,  even  while  he  winced  at  the  thought  of 
avowing  his  decision  to  her.  If  she  had  known  all, 
she  would  be  compassionate;  but  he  could  not  dis- 
close all,  and  he  trembled  lest  she  should  find  the 
obvious  insufficient  to  exonerate  him.  She  had  once 
told  him  he  was  weak — he  had  remembered  that 
since;  perhaps  she  would  view  him  only  as  a  rene- 
gade clinging  to  power  at  the  price  of  his  faith? 

But  her  gaze  was  clearer  than  he  guessed.  She 
saw  that  he  had  mated  his  antithesis;  and  partially 
she  understood.     Her  pity  for  him  had  never  been 


278  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

so  earnest,  nor  the  love  that  had  been  born  in  her 
so  deep.  Only  now  she  knew  how  vast  it  was,  this 
love  that  yearned  to  burst  from  her  lips  and  eyes 
— knew  that  if  he  had  come  to  her  ashamed,  a 
coward  and  apostate  self-condemned,  she  must  have 
loved  him  still. 

And  Blanche  was  twice  triumphant :  for  persistent 
effort  obtained  the  English  right  of  La  Curieuse;  and 
there  was  no  character  in  the  piece  which  even  Oli- 
phant  could  assert  would  suit  Miss  King.  As  a  man- 
ageress Blanche  was  only  annoyed  at  this  period  by 
her  father,  who  on  hearing  that  the  policy  of  the 
theatre  was  to  be  changed,  had  developed  an  unex- 
pected tone,  and  finally  appeared  to  have  on  hand 
a  large  assortment  of  rejected  manuscripts  ranging 
from  melodrama  to  musical  comedy.  She  did  not 
read  them,  but  he  wrote  urgent  letters  to  her  on  the 
subject,  and  importuned  her  in  her  drawing-room, 
until  she  wss  so  angered  that  she  would  have  pro- 
duced in  preference  the  weakest  of  the  plays  that 
were  submitted  to  the  theatre  daily  from  unknown 
men. 

The  adaptation  of  Reybaud's  work  had  been  en- 
trusted to  Campion,  with  the  assurance  that  it  would 
be  put  into  rehearsal  as  speedily  as  the  parts  could 
be  typed.  Stimulated  by  such  startling  propinquity 
to  fees — he  was  still  awaiting  the  production  of  a 
comedy  that  had  been  accepted  five  years  ago — he 
completed  the  task  in  ten  days,  and  the  run  of  The 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  279 

Average  Man,  which  was  entailing  a  loss  every  week, 
drew  to  a  conclusion. 

Alma  had  not  regretted  to  learn  that  her  engage- 
ment at  the  Mayfair  must  terminate;  indeed,  she  had 
already  asked  herself  if  she  could  remain  there  even 
were  she  desired  to  do  so.  Although  she  honored 
Royce  too  greatly  to  think  he  would  confess  his  love, 
honored  herself  too  much  to  fear  she  would  betray 
her  own,  the  very  hopelessness  with  which  she  con- 
templated meeting  him  no  more  showed  her  that 
their  meetings  should  cease.  After  she  left  his  the- 
atre their  lines  would  lie  apart;  she  might  remain  in 
London — that  was  to  be  expected  now — and  yet 
rarely  speak  to  him  again.  She  would  see  him  from 
the  stalls  sometimes,  and  read  his  "notices,"  and 
pray  for  his  success ;  but  it  was  very  seldom  that  they 
would  meet  each  other  in  the  streets. 

Oliphant  realized  that  too.  He  felt  it  as  he  talked 
to  her  on  the  last  night,  hungering  to  take  her  hand 
before  the  moment  of  adieu.  From  the  stage,  which 
he  had  just  left,  the  dialogue  of  the  fourth  Act 
reached  them,  and  when  the  curtain  fell,  it  would 
fall  upon  the  end  of  more  than  the  piece.  To-night 
he  still  was  playing  Literature,  and  stood  beside  the 
woman  he  loved — to-morrow  the  theatre  would  be 
void  of  both. 

"So  it  is  nearly  over!"  he  said.  "  'For  the  play, 
I  remember,  pleased  not  the  million;  'twas  caviare 
to  the  general!'     Are  you"  going  to  wish  me  'luck' 


280  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

before  you  go?"  For  the  first  time  he  made  no  ef- 
fort to  conceal  his  humiliation. 

"I  wish  it  now,"  she  answered  with  the  ghost  of 
a  smile.  "I  hope  The  Modern  Eve  will  draw  all 
London.  You  ought  to  feel  confident:  Campion 
writes  very  smartly,  and  I  hear  that  Reybaud  has 
never  done  anything  more — more  striking  than  La 
Curieuse" 

"Then  you  congratulate  me?  .  .  .  Hark! 
they're  a  good  audience  to-night,  aren't  they?  It  has 
never  gone  so  well !" 

"It  has  always  gone  well — with  the  people  who 
came !"  she  murmured. 

"With  the  people  who  came,"  repeated  Oliphant. 
He  turned  to  her  passionately:  "Why,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "why  have  I  failed?  You  know  I've  failed. 
You  don't  say  so,  but  you  know  it,  and  you  know 
that  I  know  it.  Why?  It  wasn't  to  play  the  Curieuse 
that  I  dreamed  of  Management;  we  didn't  think  of 
Reybaud  when  we  talked  in  Brighton — and  outside 
the  Museum  that  day!  I  hate  this  theatre!  I've 
lost  another  man's  money,  and  my  own  hope.  My 
God!  I'm  going  to  produce  the  worst  example  of 
the  worst  school,  and  I  haven't  the  right  to  refuse!" 

"Look  forward!"  she  cried;  "don't  look  back! 
No,  you  have  not  failed.  Hark  again! — that  is  ap- 
plause for  fine  work.  Reread  the  criticisms ! — there 
is  a  Press  that  has  understood  and  supported  you 
from  the  first.  Your  theatre  is  too  big,  your  expenses 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  28  I 

are  too  large;  here  you  must  depend  upon  the 
'million.'  One  day  you  will  fight  for  your  belief 
again;  and  with  a  smaller  house  you'll  conquer  yet!" 

He  looked  away  from  her,  with  haggard  eyes,  at 
the  Unattainable.  Yes,  with  her  he  would  have  con- 
quered yet;  but  the  future  that  he  could  foresee  held 
nothing!  With  her,  thought  would  have  been  ex- 
alted, and  purpose  fortified  by  the  grandeur  of  her 
own  soul.  He  knew  it,  as — in  the  mightiness  of  his 
longing  for  her — he  knew  that  this  defeat  wringing 
his  heart  to-nightwould  have  beenwelcome  if  for  one 
moment  it  had  yielded  him  the  comfort  of  her  kiss. 

Now  from  the  stage,  and  the  mouth  of  his  wife, 
came  the  cue  for  his  return  to  the  scene;  and  when 
he  spoke  to  Alma  next,  the  last  night  had  ended,  and 
she  wore  her  cape  and  hat.  She  had  taken  leave  of 
Blanche  and  him  together  before  she  went  to  her 
dressing-room,  but  he  had  hastened  from  his,  as  she 
had  divined  he  would,  to  clasp  her  hand  again.  It 
was  the  single  weakness  of  which  she  had  been  guilty 
that  her  hand  was  bare. 

They  stood  for  a  minute  in  the  whitewashed  pas- 
sage, face  to  face. 

"Are  you  wrapped  up  enough?  Won't  you  be 
cold?" 

"Oh,  this  stuff  is  very  thick,"  she  said,  "and  it's 
warmly  lined  besides." 

"You  ought  to  turn  up  the  collar,"  he  murmured; 
"you've  nothing  round  your  throat." 


282  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

"No,  I'm  quite  all  right;  really !" 

"You'll  have  a  cab  ?  It's  snowing  hard,  somebody 
said." 

"Yes,  I've  sent  for  one — I  expect  it's  here  now." 

"Well,  I — I  wish  you  all  the  success  and  happiness 
you  can  ask  for  yourself.  But  you  know  that,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  of  it.  And — you'll  never  say 
you've  lost  your  hope  any  more,  will  you?  Good- 
night." 

"Good-night,"  he  said.  ...  "I  wish  you'd 
turn  your  collar  up." 

"There!  Now  I'm  quite  safe,"  she  answered, 
smiling. 

And  in  this  fashion  the  man  and  woman  between 
whom  not  a  word  of  love  had  yet  been  spoken  said 
"good-bye." 


CHAPTER  XX 

'To  speak  in  more  favorable  terms  of  The 
Modern  Eve  would  be  practically  to  discredit  the 
enterprise  and  judgment  of  a  manager  who  had  in- 
spired the  hope  that " 

Yes,  Oliphant  had  foreseen  that!  He  was  read- 
ing a  "notice"  cut  from  one  of  the  journals  to  which 
Alma  had  referred  when  she  said  there  was  a  Press 
that  had  supported  him.    He  picked  up  another: 

"It  may  not  be  astonishing  that  The  Average  Man 
should  be  followed  by  The  Inquisitive  Woman,  but 
it  is  distressing.  In  Paris  I  was  merely  bored  by 
ha  Curieuse,  but  at  the  Mayfair  I  was  pained.  I 
hasten  to  say  that  my  pain  was  by  no  means  shared 
by  the  audience,  who  evidently  found  in  M.  Rey- 
baud's  work,  judiciously  watered  by  Mr.  Campion, 
a  pabulum  to  their  taste.    Nevertheless " 

There  was  a  third  slip  lying  beside  him — the  tone 
was  the  same,  a  tone  of  irony  and  regret.  From 
these  organs  he  had  derived  gleams  of  consolation 
hitherto,  and  he  winced  this  morning  as  if  three 
friends  had  turned  their  faces  from  him  in  the  street. 

But  the  piece  had  been  produced  a  week,  and  was 
playing  to  excellent  business.     The  booking  was  in- 

283 


284  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

creasing  daily,  and  there  was  every  promise  that  a 
great  pecuniary  success  would  be  achieved.  When 
the  box-office  sheets  were  so  agreeable  to  peruse,  he 
would  be  held  unreasonable  to  be  depressed  by  three 
columns  of  type ! 

In  a  month  from  the  date  of  the  production 
Blanche's  caprice  had  been  abundantly  justified. 
Boards  proclaiming  that  the  house  was  full  were 
displayed  outside  the  Mayfair  every  evening,  and  in 
the  presence  of  such  good  fortune  his  attitude  ex- 
asperated her.  That  he  should  comport  himself  as  if 
they  had  experienced  another  failure,  when  they  had 
the  longest  advertisement  in  the  Daily  Telegraph, 
and  a  demand  for  boxes,  and  a  queue  at  the  pit  and 
gallery-doors  an  hour  before  they  opened,  was  an 
annoyance  which  not  even  the  additional  frequency 
of  her  entertainments  could  assuage.  He  was  truly 
an  impossible  person !  She  felt  it  more  and  more. 
An  ordinary  man  would  have  owned  that  his  judg- 
ment had  been  at  fault,  and  thanked  her;  but  did 
her  husband?  So  far  from  acknowledging  his  error, 
he  didn't  seem  to  recognize  that  it  had  been  demon- 
strated. If  it  had  not  been  for  Otho,  she  would  have 
been  miserable;  his  was  the  only  real  companionship 
she  had.  And  then  Royce  remonstrated,  and  called 
her  improvident  because  she  gave  parties !  In  truth 
— the  reflection  occurred  to  her  one  afternoon  as  she 
mused  by  the  fire — in  truth  she  was  taking  a  very 
noble  course  in  doing  so ;  it  was  not  every  woman  in 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  285 

her  position  who  would  have  striven  to  interest  her- 
self in  social  gaieties  when  a  young  man  with  thou- 
sands a  year  was  dying  with  love  for  her! 

Did  she  care  for  him  seriously?  She  pursed  her 
lips;  well,  not  as  she  had  cared  for  Royce  once,  of 
course — that  had  been  a  headstrong  passion;  she 
would  never  have  married  Otho  Fairbairn  if  he  had 
been  an  actor  in  his  third  London  engagement.  Still 
she  did  like  him.  As  he  was,  she  would  have  mar- 
ried him  like  a  shot  if  she  were  free.  Good  Lord, 
how  happy  she'd  have  been  with  him!  "Happy?" 
What  a  word  for  the  life  she  might  have  led !  The 
jewelry  he  would  have  bought  for  her ;  and  the  horses 
and  carriages ! — she'd  have  had  a  Russian  sable  rug 
in  the  victoria,  and — And  she  would  have  had  a  the- 
atre too — he  would  have  let  her  do  anything  she 
pleased!  .  .  .  Her  foot  was  resting  on  the  fender, 
and  she  admired  it  pensively.  Royce  wouldn't 
despair;  but  that  would  be  the  end  of  her  friendship 
with  the  Flecks  and — Oh  no,  no,  she  was  a  virtuous 
woman! 

She  had  found  occasion  to  remind  herself  of  it; 
and,  though  she  did  not  realize  the  fact,  the  thought 
that  had  given  her  pause  was  that  if  she  sinned  she 
would  lose  Society. 

The  hundredth  night  of  The  Modern  Eve  was 
reached  without  any  diminution  of  the  receipts,  and 
Oliphant  rejoiced  as  a  prisoner  who  approaches  re- 
lease.   Now  that  the  money  that  had  been  lost  by  the 


2  86  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

earlier  plays  would  be  recovered,  he  would  be  free 
to  tell  Fairbairn  that  he  wished  to  withdraw  from 
the  theatre.  Management  on  the  lines  he  was  re- 
quired to  travel  henceforward  was  a  prospect  before 
which  he  quailed;  and  since  the  remainder  of  the 
lease  could  be  transferred  easily  enough,  there  would 
be  no  cause  for  complaint  on  either  side.  That  the 
adaptation  would  continue  to  attract  the  Public  un- 
til the  middle  of  July — that  its  run  in  London  would 
have  made  the  Mayfair  a  profitable  speculation — 
there  could  be  no  doubt.  Therefore  he  would  not 
even  take  the  detested  piece  "out"  in  the  autumn! 
That  Otho  should  not  suffer  by  his  hatred  of  it,  he 
would  accept  the  best  of  the  numerous  offers  for  the 
provincial  rights. 

When  Blanche  inquired  whether  an  autumn  tour 
was  being  arranged,  he  told  her  "no." 

"Well,  isn't  it  time  we  got  some  dates?"  she 
asked;  "what  have  we  got  an  acting-manager  for? 
I  tell  you  that  man  is  no  use — he  looks  very  nice,  but 
that's  all  he  thinks  about!  I  hear  when  everybody 
was  coming  out  the  other  evening,  he  stood  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  saying  'Good  night'  to  three  girls 
he'd  passed  in.  That  sort  of  thing  lets  the  show 
down,  you  know !  It's  very  bad — people  think  that 
half  the  house  is  paper!" 

Oliphant  hesitated  nervously.  "Look  here, 
Blanche,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to  go  out  with  the 
piece;  that's  why  nothing  is  being  done.     If  Otho 


THE   ACTOR-MANAGER  287 

gets  his  money  back,  I  want  to  drop  The  Modern 
Eve,  and  the  Mayfair  too.  Let  us  take  engagements 
again;  I  can't  go  on  this  way!" 

"You  want  to  drop  the  Mayfair?"  she  stammered, 
paling.     "Do  you  mean  it?" 

"I  can't  go  on!"  he  repeated.  "Oh,  for  Heaven's 
sake  try  to  see  it  from  my  point  of  view  for  once; 
don't  let's  have  another  argument!  I'm  ashamed 
— that's  the  word;  I  couldn't  resign  myself  to  play- 
ing this  sort  of  stuff;  I  couldn't!" 

She  looked  at  him  speechlessly,  her  blue  eyes 
ablaze  with  wrath. 

"I  think  you  are  a  lunatic,"  she  said  hoarsely,  at 
last.  "My  God !  I  think  you  are  a  lunatic;  I  do,  on 
my  soul !  You'd  like  to  ruin  yourself  and  everybody 
connected  with  you." 

"If  Otho  gets  his  money  back " 

"Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  getting  his  money 
back!"  she  exclaimed.  "Whom  has  he  got  to  thank 
for  it,  you  or  me?  Would  you  ever  have  got  it  back 
for  him?  Never  in  this  world!  And  when  I  pro- 
posed the  piece  which  by  your  own  showing  has 
rescued  you,  rescued  you  from  the  overwhelming 
burden  of  a  West  End  theatre,  you  had  the  insolence 
to  sneer  at  me  in  front  of  him !" 

"I 'sneered' at  you?    When?" 

"You  know  very  well  when!  When  we  were  dis- 
cussing the  piece  at  lunch  that  day.  You  know  you 
did!     Your  whole  tone  was  an  insult — making  out 


288  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

that  I  was  uneducated  and  had  no  taste.  You  tried 
to  make  me  look  as  small  as  you  could.  But  he 
didn't  think  any  more  of  you  for  it,  /  could  see !" 

"What  you  say,"  he  answered,  "is  absolutely  un- 
true. That  we  shall  never  feel  the  same  way  about 
the  Stage  as  long  as  we  live  I'm  quite  sure,  but  it 
can't  be  necessary  to  quarrel  about  it.  As  to  Otho 
having  to  thank  you  for  our  present  success,  that's 
a  fact  that  I've  admitted  often." 

"You  haven't!'  she  cried;  "and  youWe  had  cause 
to  thank  me  a  damned  sight  more  than  Otho,  if  you 
knew  it!"    Her  rage  had  mastered  her. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Oliphant  sternly; 
"you  can  explain  yourself  when  you  can  talk  like  a 
lady." 

"I  don't  wish  to  talk  at  all !  .  .  .  If  you'd  like 
to  know  what  I  mean,  I  told  him  that  you  ought  to 
have  a  theatre;  I  knew  you  never  would!  And  he 
quite  agreed  with  me;  that's  why  he  made  you  the 
offer." 

"I  see,"  said  Oliphant;  "that  was  it?  Yes,  I  sup- 
pose I  have  had  cause  to  thank  you.  I'd  rather  you 
hadn't  done  it,  but  it  may  sound  ungrateful  to  say  so. 
Well,  we  have  had  our  theatre,  and  it  hasn't  fulfilled 
my  hopes.     Can't  we  recognize  the  fact  calmly?" 

"It  hasn't  fulfilled  your  hopes?    We  are  coining 

money,  and  it  hasn't  fulfilled Oh !  oh  no,  please 

don't  say  any  more !"    She  clasped  her  head.    "I  am 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  289 

at  my  limit !  It's  quite  understood — you  are  going 
to  give  it  up.     That's  enough !" 

She  did  not  speak  again  during  the  day,  and  a  per- 
functory remark  that  he  offered  at  dinner  fell  still- 
born. At  seven  o'clock  they  drove  to  the  Mayfair, 
where  the  audience  heard  the  first  words  that  she 
had  addressed  to  him  for  nine  hours.  Their  love- 
scenes,  however,  "went"  as  well  as  usual,  and  when 
he  led  her  before  the  curtain,  and  she  smiled  to  his 
bow,  the  suggestion  of  connubial  felicity  was  beauti- 
ful to  behold. 

But  though  she  was  resolved  not  to  reopen  the 
subject  until  the  time  came  when  it  could  no  longer 
be  ignored,  Blanche  could  dwell  on  little  else.  When 
Otho  presented  himself,  perturbed,  for  an  explana- 
tion, she  again  rendered  a  mental  tribute  to  his  sym- 
pathy. Her  hope  that  Oliphant  would  recant  was 
of  the  slightest — his  second  thoughts  would  doubt- 
less be  as  besotted  as  his  first!  Dismay  engulfed 
her;  and  the  ignominy  of  abdication  poisoned  her 
very  dreams. 

Her  reveries  were  now  more  frequent  than  be- 
fore. The  silence  between  her  and  Oliphant  had 
been  broken,  but  her  grievance  was  manifest  in  her 
accents,  and  their  speech  was  very  restrained.  She 
had  no  heart  to  visit,  and  he  lacked  heart  to  sit  at 
home  viewing  her  resentment.  Hence  she  was  often 
alone  in  the  Green  Street  drawing-room,  and — as 
the  reverberation  of  his  announcement  subsided — to 


29O  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

enliven  her  solitude  she  once  or  twice  returned  with 
curious  eyes  to  the  edge  of  the  abyss  from  which 
two  months  ago  she  had  started  back  afraid.  She 
could  now  look  down  without  turning  dizzy  quite  so 
soon.  She  repeated  that  there  would  be  no  more 
cards  like  these  lying  in  a  tray  on  her  table.  "Yes, 
she  would  be  making  a  great  sacrifice  for  him  I"  Of 
course — just  for  pastime  imagining  that  she  did  do 
such  a  thing — after  the  divorce  he  would  marry  her; 
there  was  no  doubt  about  that.  People  did  forget 
in  time — especially  when  one  was  an  actress !  And 
really,  if  they  didn't,  plenty  of  women  would  regard 
a  vast  fortune  as  ample  compensation.  She  could 
not  do  so  herself;  but  plenty  of  women  would! 
Plenty  of  women  would  consider  that  they  were 
quite  justified  in  leaving  a  husband  like  Royce ! 
What  joy  had  she  in  her  life?  If  her  dear  little 
baby  had  been  spared  to  her,  she  would  never  have 
been  tempted.  Ah,  her  sweet  little  baby,  how  de- 
voted she  had  been  to  him !  When  a  man  was  in- 
different to  his  wife,  it  was  not  astonishing  if  her 
craving  for  affection  proved  too  great  for  her 
strength.  This  tenderness  that  had  been  awakened 
in  her  was  natural.  As  Royce  had  said  when  he 
proposed  to  her,  to  be  an  artist  a  woman  must  love. 
Just  because  she  had  attempted  to  lull  despair  for 
five  minutes  by  the  writing  of  a  little  paragraph !  If 
he  had  human  instincts,  he  would  have  pitied  her 
the  more  for  that  pathetic  effort!     And  he  was  to 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  29  I 

allow  himself  all  latitude,  while  she  was  denied  con- 
solation? Plenty  of  women  would  laugh  at  her  as 
a  fool!  Of  course  he  was  false  to  her — how  could 
she  question  it  even  for  an  instant?  He  was  false 
to  her  with — with  Alma  King! 

This  new  idea  offered  her  comfort.  In  the  days 
that  followed  she  strove  to  believe  it.  Alma  was 
now  playing  \t  the  Pall  Mall,  and  Oliphant  had  not 
seen  her  since  she  left  their  Company,  but  Blanche 
wished  to  persuade  herself  that  they  were  guilty. 
Vague  accusations  of  infidelity  no  longer  satisfied 
her,  and  to  excuse  her  own  increased  temptation,  she 
sought  to  point  definitely  to  the  woman. 

The  Modern  Eve  achieved  its  destiny,  and  as  the 
business  dropped,  and  the  general  exodus  from  town 
commenced,  it  was  decided  that  in  another  fortnight 
Oliphant's  reign  at  the  Mayfair  should  cease. 

Blanche  accepted  his  intimation  of  the  fact  with 
the  fewest  words  possible,  and  rewarded  herself  for 
their  sparsity  by  many  comments  to  Otho.  Passion- 
ately as  she  had  exulted  in  the  possession  of  a  the- 
atre, it  seemed  to  her  in  this  final  fortnight  that  she 
had  never  appreciated  it  enough.  Each  time  the 
door-keeper  touched  his  cap  to  her  as  she  entered, 
she  suffered  a  pang,  in  picturing  him  saluting  another 
manageress  soon.  The  star-room  where  she  dressed 
stung  her  with  the  reminder  that  where  she  played 
her  next  part  the  star-room  would  be  another's. 
The  respect  of  the  vilified  acting-manager  with  the 


292  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

"returns"  was  a  sword-thrust,  as  she  realized  how 
speedily  she  would  have  declined  to  the  insignifi- 
cance of  a  salary. 

And  as  the  days  slipped  past,  Otho  Fairbairn 
suffered  no  less  acutely.  She  would  lose  power,  and 
he  would  lose  pretext.  With  the  closure  of  the  May- 
fair,  the  ostensible  motive  for  his  dalliance  in  Lon- 
don would  be  removed;  and  he  stood  face  to  face 
with  the  truth.  Now  he  must  either  go  away  and 
resign  himself  to  misery,  or  realize  that  he  was  too 
violently  in  love  with  his  friend's  wife  to  leave  her. 
He  decided  to  go  away. 

He  determined  the  matter  in  the  small  hours 
while  he  lay  praying  for  sleep,  or  his  shaving-water; 
and  in  the  afternoon  when  the  sun  shone,  and  he 
drifted  to  Green  Street,  he  felt  ennobled  by  his  reso- 
lution. 

Blanche,  as  was  so  often  the  case  latterly,  was  sip- 
ping tea  by  herself.  It  was  the  half-hour  he  always 
found  most  charming.  The  shaded  room  was  rest- 
ful after  the  glare  of  the  Park,  and  the  flowers 
looked  cooler  within  doors,  and  sweeter.  Their 
fragrance  too  could  be  detected  here;  as  he  greeted 
her  he  felt  the  perfume  of  the  roses  she  was  wearing, 
roses  that  he  saw  had  been  chosen  from  the  basket 
that  he  had  sent. 

"I  wondered  if  you  would  come  round,"  she  said. 
"Thanks  ever  so  much  for  those — they're  simply  ex- 
quisite." 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  293 

"Have  you  been  out?"  he  asked,  dropping  into 
an  arm-chair. 

"No;  it's  too  hot.    Well?    Tea?" 

"Thanks.  Well!  'Our  story  approaches  the 
end'  ?  It's  extraordinary  the  hold  a  theatre  takes  on 
one;  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I'd  been  interested  in  the 
Mayfair  all  my  life  !    I  shall  be  lost  when  we  close  !" 

She  sighed.     "And//" 

"Well,  you'll  be  on  the  stage — it  won't  be  quite 
the  same  thing;  /  shall  only  be  able  to  sit  in  the  stalls. 
You  can't  imagine  how  I  shall  miss  the  pass-door  and 
the  wings !  At  least,  you  can,  because  you're  an 
actress,  but  a  good  many  people  would  think  it 
affectation." 

"I  suppose  the  wings  somewhere  might  still  be 
possible?"  she  said;  "but  I  understand  what  you 
mean,  of  course.  You  don't  really  think  it  will  be  a 
greater  change  for  you  than  me,  though?  You  can 
always  run  a  theatre  if  you  want  to — that  isn't  diffi- 
cult. To  me — oh,  my  dear  boy,  the  change  will  be 
frightful !  Now  you've  given  me  a  taste  for  Man- 
agement I  shall  simply  hate  an  engagement;  I  shall 
loathe  it!" 

He  looked  his  commiseration,  and  she  nodded  re- 
peatedly. 

"It  will  be  hideous !     To  have  to  go  to  rehearsal 

whether  I'm  in  the  humor  or  not,  and  be  dictated  to 

by  the  stage-manager,  and  have  my  pet  business  al- 

,  tered  to  improve  somebody  else's  part,  and Oh, 


294  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

you  haven't  an  idea !  When  a  woman  who  has  once 
been  her  own  Manageress  takes  an  engagement 
again,  I  can  tell  you  she  feels  the  difference  here." 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"Even  now,  you  know,"  said  Otho  after  a  slight 
pause,  "it  isn't  too  late,  if  Royce  is  willing  to  go  on. 
Nothing  is  settled." 

"He  won't;  don't  entertain  such  an  idea  for  a 
moment — he  won't!  No,  Royce  is  relieved — I  can 
assure  you  he  is  relieved — to  think  that  there  are 
only  four  more  nights  before  we  finish !" 

"It's  a  thousand  pities,"  he  murmured;  "I'm 
sorrier  than  I  can  say.  He's  been  consistent,  of 
course;  one  can't  deny  that,  but — Well,  I'm  bound 
to  admit  he  seems  to  me  to  be  playing  the  fool." 

"  'Consistent' !  Oh,  let's  talk  about  something 
else." 

"He  explained  from  the  beginning  the  course  he 
meant  to  pursue.  Don't  fancy  I'm  making  excuses 
for  him,  but  it  was  understood  that  he'd  only  con- 
duct a  theatre  on  certain  lines." 

Blanche  smiled. 

"But  it  was,  Mrs.  Royce." 

"Oh,  I  know  all  that!"  she  said,  "but  do  you  sup- 
pose if "    She  rose  impatiently. 

"Do  I  suppose  if — what?" 

"Never  mind ;  it  doesn't  matter !" 

"Tell  me.    What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"I  was  going  to  say  'do  you  suppose  we  should  be 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  295 

leaving  the  theatre  if  Miss  King  had  remained  in  it?" 
She  looked  round  into  his  startled  face.  "That's 
all!" 

"Miss  King?"     He  stared  up  at  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  pretend  you  didn't  know?  You 
needn't  be  considerate — my  eyes  have  been  open  a 
long  while !  As  soon  as  he  got  a  theatre,  he  brought 
her  into  it;  and  when  a  piece  that  meant  a  fortune 
was  to  be  had,  he  opposed  it  because  there  was  no 
part  in  it  for  her;  and  because  he  was  furious  when 
you  took  my  side,  and  he  was  obliged  to  let  her  go, 
he  revenged  himself  on  me  by  giving  the  theatre 
up." 

"Good  God!    .    .    .    Oh  no!" 

"I  don't  say  that  the  theatre  managed  in  an  or- 
dinary way  would  ever  have  made  him  happy — I 
know  it  wouldn't;  but  he'd  never  have  gone  to  such 
a  length  as  this  if  he  thought  I  was  blind  enough  to 
have  that  woman  back  in  it.  So  mad  as  that  he's 
not!  It  was  plain  enough  surely?  Everybody  in  the 
Company  must  have  talked.  In  two  months'  time 
you'll  see  them  both  playing  at  the  same  house." 
Her  arms  fell  impotently.     "And  so  shall  //" 

Unconsciously  she  had  taken  the  pose  that  she  had 
adopted  in  Oliphant's  play,  when  as  "Maud"  she 
imagined  that  "Mrs.  Vaughan"  was  "Clement's" 
mistress.  Her  expression  was  the  same.  Now,  as 
then,  her  sensibilities  were  profoundly  stirred  by  a 
situation  which  her  judgment  knew  to  be  fictitious. 


296  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

She  believed  this  thing  only  while  she  wished  to  be- 
lieve it — because  hitherto  the  belief  had  allayed  her 
conscience;  but  impulse  had  carried  her  before  an 
"audience,"  and  now  she  sounded  the  depths,  the 
humiliation  was  revealed;  and  her  voice  broke. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  he  said  huskily;  "I'll  swear 
I've  never  had  a  suspicion !    You  must  be  wrong." 

"Heavens!  Do  you  think  I  look  for  these  things 
— that  I'm  jealous  ?"  Her  laugh  was  bitter.  "I  only 
care  because  I'm  a  woman  and  I've  pride  to  be  hurt; 
for  Royce  I  care  no  more  than  I  do  for  that  chair! 
If  I  weren't  a  fool,  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  care  at  all, 
but  .  .  .  Ah,  don't  worry  about  me — I'm  used  to 
it  by  now!" 

She  turned  aside,  and  leant  her  elbows  on  the  man- 
telpiece, her  head  between  her  closed  hands.  There 
was  a  long  silence,  while  he  struggled  to  remain  in 
his  seat. 

"I'm  frightfully  sorry  for  you,"  he  stammered, 
rising. 

Her  face  was  hidden  from  him,  but  her  little  nods 
were  grateful,  and  pathetic.  He  stood  combating  the 
temptation  to  touch  her — his  sympathy  yearned  to 
touch  her,  while  his  prudence  warned  him  to  resist. 
His  hand  moved  towards  her  twice,  and  was  twice 
caught  back.    Then  he  drew  hers  down. 

"Don't — I  can't  bear  to  see  you  miserable!"  he 
said. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  297 

Her  fingers  thanked  him,  and  now  he  perceived 
that  she  was  crying. 

"If  you  knew  how  hard  my  life  is!"  she  faltered. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  him ;  and  the  next  moment 
he  had  kissed  her. 

But  the  words  that  poured  from  him  were  not  the 
words  demanded  by  her  mood.  He  upbraided  him- 
self, and  vowed  that  he  would  never  see  her  again. 
She  did  not  want  to  pity  his  self-reproaches — she 
wanted  him  to  silence  hers.  He  was  her  penitent, 
and  she  would  have  had  him  her  master.  She  was 
begged  to  understand  his  remorse,  and  she  wanted 
to  be  swept  from  hesitation  by  his  love.  As  she  lis- 
tened, the  outlook  grew  strangely  dark,  the  gloom 
of  it  chilled  her,  and  she  felt  forlorn.  A  sense  of 
hopelessness  overwhelmed  her — and  she  realized 
that  she  had  hoped. 

He  went  from  her  abased.  The  kiss  and  his 
avowal  had  rendered  him  contemptible;  and  that  she 
had  told  him  she  was  fond  of  him  seemed  to  increase 
his  enormity.  He  wished  she  had  not  told  him  she 
was  fond  of  him — the  impression  left  by  the  after- 
noon was  graver  because  she  had  said  that!  But  if 
she  had  been  anybody's  wife  but  Oliphant's!  Ter- 
rible that  a  woman's  perfection  could  be  patent  to  all 
the  world  except  her  husband!  Her  view  of  the  re- 
tirement from  the  Mayfair  as  an  act  of  retaliation 
was  far-fetched,  preposterous,  but  though  she  was 
mistaken   there,    the   main   charge   might   be   true. 


298  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

What  wonder  that  she  was  unhappy,  poor  girl !  He 
regretted  the  visit  passionately;  he  had  determined 
to  avoid  her,  and  he  was  given  cause  to  feel  ashamed 
after  all.  That  was  cruel !  And  now,  too,  he  would 
be  ten  times  more  wretched  apart  from  her!  It 
would  even  be  wrong  to  take  leave  of  her — or  for 
them  to  meet  in  a  year's  time — knowing  what  they 
knew.  And  Oliphant!  how  distressing  to  have  to 
meet  Oliphant  again ! 

He  went  from  her  abased,  and  Blanche  sat  mo- 
tionless, with  wide  eyes.  Never  had  she  permitted 
herself  to  recognize  her  fancies  as  expectation,  but 
they  were  buried  in  their  real  name.  How  their 
companionship  had  sustained  her  their  death  dis- 
played. She  knew  now  that  she  had  desired  to  gain 
the  existence  to  which  Otho  Fairbairn  was  the  key; 
knew  that,  though  this  sudden  sensation  of  blankness 
could  not  last,  she  would  remember  and  repine  as 
long  as  she  lived — would  think  of  the  might-have- 
been  when  she  had  lost  her  prettiness  and  her  figure, 
and  the  Lady  Flecks  of  the  period  were  oblivious 
of  an  elderly  actress  whose  only  recommendation 
was  her  virtue.  Then  to  her  despondence  arose  the 
ghost  of  her  hope;  and  in  sight  of  it  she  demanded 
why  the  ambition  of  a  woman  like  herself  should  be 
frustrated  by  so  weak  a  man.  Man?  He  was  a 
boy  in  everything  but  his  age !  Should  she  resign 
herself  to  being  balked  by  his  scruples  ? 

She  went  to  the  Mayfair  that  evening  wondering 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  299 

if  she  would  see  him;  but  Otho  was  not  there.  Nor 
did  he  appear  on  the  next,  though  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  accept  a  dinner  invitation  to  support  his 
oath.  On  the  penultimate  night  he  failed;  but  he 
compromised  with  resolution  by  entering  the  theatre 
only  for  a  few  minutes  to  mention  that  he  was  going 
to  Trouville. 

"You'll  come  to  Green  Street  first?"  she  asked. 

He  had  intended  to  say  adieu  to  her  and  Oliphant 
in  the  office  on  the  morrow,  but  now  he  hesitated. 

uDo  you  think  I  had  better  go  to  the  house  ?"  he 
said. 

Her  face  hardened,  and  she  made  no  reply  for  a 
moment. 

uNo  I"  she  said  coldly.  "Good-bye;  I  hope  it  will 
be  a  pleasant  change,  Mr.  Fairbairn." 

"For  God's  sake  don't  be  cruel,"  he  muttered. 
"I'm  suffering  enough!" 

She  had  moved  apart  from  him,  and  he  followed 
her  humbly. 

"Blanche!     Are  you  angry  with  me?" 

"  'Angry?'  "  she  echoed,  pausing;  "what  right 
have  I  to  be  'angry'  with  you?  You'll  do  as  you 
please,  of  course." 

"May  I  come  Sunday  for  half  an  hour?" 

"Sunday  I  shall  be  out,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "If  you 
wish  to,  come  to-morrow  afternoon." 

She    returned   to   the   dressing-room,   her  pulses 


300  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

quickened  by  suspense.  To-morrow  he  would  again 
tell  her  how  miserable  he  was;  but  would  he  implore 
her  to  make  him  happy  ?  It  would  be  then  or  never ! 
If  he  would  but  beg  her  to  leave  London  with  him — 
if  he  would  only  say  the  words !  She  would  become 
his  wife,  and  their  elopement  would  be  forgotten! 
The  prospect  dizzied  her,  and  swam  before  her  gaze ; 
she  quivered  in  contemplating  the  position. 

There  was  no  sign  of  agitation,  however,  in  the 
greeting  he  was  accorded;  its  tranquillity  relieved 
him.  Her  manner  had  neither  the  resentment  at 
which  on  the  previous  evening  he  had  winced,  nor 
the  implication  that  he  had  vaguely  dreaded.  She 
spoke  of  Trouville,  and  asked  him  if  it  was  "nice." 
There  was  a  casino,  she  supposed?  Every  French 
watering-place  had  a  casino,  hadn't  it?  And  one 
played  a  game  called  Little  Horses,  which  was  the 
Monte  Carlo  gamble  adapted  for  the  nursery,  and 
had  ices  and  flirtations  on  a  terrace  overlooking  the 
sea?  How  he  would  enjoy  himself!  It  must  be 
delicious,  especially  after  dinner  in  the  moonlight. 

He  felt  that  it  would  indeed  be  delicious  were  she 
beside  him  there,  but  merely  answered  that  it  would 
bore  him  to  death.  Her  small  talk  hurt  him  as 
speedily  as  it  was  meant  to  do,  although  before  he 
came  he  had  perceived  in  the  subject  of  Trouville 
some  promise  of  safety.  She  was  paler  than  usual, 
he  noted;  there  were  shadows  beneath  her  eyes,  and 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  3OI 

in  spite  of  her  attempt  at  animation,  her  tone,  her 
pose  itself,  had  a  certain  lassitude. 

It  was  now  for  him  to  sustain  her  courageous  ef- 
fort, for  she  was  silent.  In  the  silence  her  face 
looked  wearier  still. 

"Where — which  theatre  do  you  think  you  will  go 
to  next?"  he  said,  when  the  pause  had  grown  too 
long. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  she  murmured.     "Why?" 

"I  should  have  liked  to  know  what  you  were  go- 
ing to  do — I  shan't  be  in  London  for  a  long  while; 
I  don't  expect  I  shall  remain  in  Europe." 

"You  are  going  to  travel?  Where — in  impossible 
places?    Have  you  made  your  plans?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  mean  to  go  just  where  impulse  takes  you? 
How  lovely!  It  must  be  simply  perfect  to  wander 
about  the  world  like  that." 

"Perfect?"  said  he.  "You  know  that  I'm  going 
because  I  must!  You  know  very  well  I  shall  be 
wretched!" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  lips  trembled.  When 
they  had  trembled,  she  averted  her  face. 

"Don't  you  know  it?" 

"Perhaps  you  think  you  will;  you'll  soon  forget 
me.    A  man  can  forget  so  easily." 

Then  the  scene  of  which  she  had  been  confident 
was  enacted.     He  told  her  all  that  she  had  known 


302  THE    ACTOR-MANAGER 

he  was  going  to  tell  her,  omitting  only  the  petition, 
which  was  the  thing  she  was  eager  to  hear.  Though 
his  devotion  dishonored  him,  though  his  goddess  was 
clay,  this  ordeal  was  the  severest  that  he  had  been 
called  upon  to  bear;  to  part  from  her  tortured  him; 
and  when  he  cried  that  he  "adored"  her,  the  word 
was  no  more  than  the  literal  expression  of  a  fact. 
Her  suspense  began  to  be  tinged  by  impatience,  even 
by  misgiving. 

She  tore  her  hands  from  him,  and  sprang  to  her 
feet. 

"Why  did  you  come  into  my  life?"  she  exclaimed; 
"I  could  have  borne  the  rest!" 

As  she  was  clasped,  she  was  momentarily  san- 
guine; but  expectation  faded,  and  the  coldness  of  dis- 
may sank  through  her  limbs  again. 

"Say  'Good-bye'  to  me!"  he  urged;  "for  God's 
sake,  let  me  say  it  while  I  can!" 

Her  eyes  fastened  on  him,  but  he  released  her, 
and  was  going.  She  watched  him  cross  the  room. 
All  that  she  thirsted  for  was  receding — affluence, 
splendor,  everything  that  could  make  life  worth  liv- 
ing was  in  this  man's  hold!  In  another  second  the 
darkness  would  have  fallen,  and  would  lift  no  more. 
She  would  not,  she  could  not,  let  him  go!  She  ut- 
tered a  great  cry,  and  threw  herself  sobbing  on  the 
couch. 

"I've  only  you  in  the  world!"  she  gasped,  clinging 
to  him. 


THE    ACTOR-MANAGER  303 

Then  suddenly — as  she  looked  up  into  his  white 
face — she  faltered.  Morality,  convention,  the  re- 
straining instinct,  awoke  and  terrified  her  in  spite  of 
herself.  She  strove  to  stifle  it,  to  harden  herself 
against  it,  she  battled  with  it  as  a  woman  may  battle 
with  a  physical  weakness.  Her  mind  whirled.  Why 
did  he  give  her  time  to  reflect?  A  moment  more, 
and  horror  would  have  conquered  her!  Why  didn't 
he  succumb  ? 

Fairbairn  moved  to  the  hearth,  and  the  clock 
ticked  away  a  minute  while  he  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
street.  A  hansom  was  crawling  along  the  hot  road, 
and  he  observed  the  minutiae  of  a  hansom  for  the  first 
time.  When  the  hansom  was  out  of  sight  he  gradu- 
ally became  aware  that  he  was  thinking.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  dull  wonder  at  his  own  apathy.  His 
most  distinguishable  feeling  was  regret,  but  neither 
remorse  nor  passion  was  acute;  he  felt  dreary  and 
sad.  The  clock  ticked;  and  he  stood  realizing  the 
position.  Well,  he  would  make  her  his  wife  as  soon 
as  possible.  .  .  .  Oliphant  would  despise  him — 
not  more  than  he  deserved.  Perhaps  Oliphant  would 
marry  Miss  King  after  the  divorce?  If  he  cared  for 
her  much,  one  might  be  sure  he  would.  None  the 
less  he,  Otho  Fairbairn,  would  always  be  called  a 
scoundrel !  .  .  .  But  he  was  chiefly  guilty  towards 
the  angel  who  had  sacrificed  her  reputation  for  love 


304  THE   ACTOR-MANAGER 

of  him !     At  this  point  he  looked  round  at  her,  fur- 
tively, ashamed. 

The  woman  whom  he  had  yet  to  understand  lay 
back  upon  the  sofa  with  her  eyes  closed — thinking 
too. 


THE    END 


The    Market 
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stories,  making  clearer  the  characters  and  separate  trag- 
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€J  The  Brooklyn  Citizen  says  of  one  of  these  stories: 
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Q  The  Boston  Transcript  says:  "A  revelation  of  one 
side  of  life  that  prevails  wherever  man  and  woman 
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message  to  the  multitude  that  the  multitude  should  hear 
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tained to  the  end."  — N.  Y.  Times  Review 

"Mrs.  Belloc  Lowndes*  novels  are  all  of  the  sort  to 
create  discussion.  But  suppose  readers  do  disagree,  the 
story  is  exciting."  — San  Francisco  Call 

"  Mrs.  Belloc  Lowndes  has  never  done  anything  quite 
so  unexpected."  — N.  Y,  Press 

"An  exciting  problem,  presented  in  a  brilliant  novel. 
Reveals  on  every  page  the  point  of  view  of  a  woman,  and 
rare  glimpses  of  feminine  psychology  which,  while  au- 
thentic, distress  the  male.  Subtle  depiction  of  feminine 
emotional  logic.  A  subject  Maupassant  would  have 
delighted  in."  — Current  Literature 

STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

"Mrs.  Belloc  Lowndes  has  arrived.  No  one  inter- 
ested in  the  real  literary  movements  of  our  day  can  have 
failed  to  notice  of  late  the  rare  qualities  displayed  by  this 
brilliant  writer.  In  'Studies  in  Wives'  we  have  a 
volume  of  exquisite  achievement.  At  once  Mrs.  Belloc 
Lowndes  steps  into  a  foremost  place  amongst  the  writers  of 
the  time.  She  etches  into  our  brains,  as  with  the  sharp 
needle  point  and  acid,  impressions  that  take  possession  of 
the  mind,  and  haunt  it.  This  is  rare  art.  It  is  given  but 
to  the  few  thus  to  create.  And  it  is  to  her  eternal  credit 
as  artist  that,  deep  as  is  the  motive  that  inspires  each 
separate  story,  she  never  mistakes  her  gifts  for  the  gifts 
of  the  preacher;  never  confuses  her  craft  with  the  craft 
of  the  orator.  The  duel  of  sex  is  here,  and  it  is  described 
without  bias;  but  it  is  as  fearlessly  stated  as  it  is  ex- 
quisitely achieved.     A  large  promise  is  fulfilled." 

T.  <P.'s  Weekb 


by  E.  Temple  Thurston 


THE  GARDEN  OF  RESURRECTION 

Q  It  is  a  tale  most  appealing  and  tenderly  touching  to  all 
who  believe  in  the  grace  of  love ;  and  the  reading  of  it 
leaves  behind  the  perfume  o*  that  grace  in  the  mind  and 
heart  for  many  a  day.  It  is  a  tale  with  true  charm — 
the  charm  that  transports  and  delights  at  the  same  time. 

• 

THE  GREATEST  WISH  IN  THE  WORLD 

*I "  There  have  been  few  stories  so  sweet,  so  tender,  so 
humanly,  sacredly  convincing  as  this  simple  study  of  an 
Irish  priest  and  his  Cockney  housekeeper,  to  whom  comes 
the  strange  transfiguring  bequest  of  a  deserted  girl  baby." 
Edwin  L.  Shuman,  Chicago  Record-Herald 

SALLY  BISHOP 

1§ "  It  must  be  named  as  a  book  which  was  no  slight 
achievement  to  have  written,  and  no  slight  experience  to 
have  read."        Francis  Hackett,  Chicago  Evening  Post 

^  "  Written  with  the  pathos  of  true  humor,  an  eye  clear 
for  the  actual,  a  taste  fine  and  true.  A  story  to  be  glad 
of."  Percival  Pollard,  Town  Topics 


MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
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14  DAY  USE 

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This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


28%59VF 


REC'D  LD 


APR  23  1959 


m,    AUG  3  0 


?_ 


LD  21A-50m-9,'58 
(6889sl0)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


A    252738 


